Oversoul
by SynapticFirefly
Summary: CIA Agent Jim Kirk must join forces with Analyst Spock Grayson to investigate and destroy a terrorist cell. The line between his professional and personal lives begins to blur, and Kirk must come face-to-face with his inner demons, resist the temptation of falling dangerously for his new partner, and uncover a dark secret his family may have committed under the banner of freedom.
1. 001

**A/N: **Major credit given to my amazing beta, **SyncreticVenture**!

**Warnings:** Adult language and adult situations. Copious mentions of terrorism and current events.

**Rating:** M

**Pairings:** Kirk/Spock, Sulu/Chekov, Scotty/Uhura, Mitchell/Dehner

* * *

**Chapter 001**

Being marched to the Head of Counter-Intelligence himself instead of the usual duty officer was never a good sign. The summoning on the cafeteria intercom had called for Jim Kirk and three of his fellow agents to report to Director Christopher Pike, which either meant that Pike wanted to either discuss with CIA's brightest for an important mission, or chew them out. It also depended on whose ass was in the fire: theirs or the target's.

"You ready for another round, gentleman?" Kirk fixed his patented boyish grin on his face and slipped into a jaunty gait. This _might_ be an interesting conversation.

His inquiry was met with different levels of rallying by his teammates, a murmur of assent and anticipation. It had been a while since they began a mission as a cohesive team. Excitement was palpable to buzzing around the agents' heads, for Pike called on the Dream Team to work together this time. Though, the title on their group dossiers was _Sector Zeitgeist_, and their synergy had always been off the scale. With their history, youth, and complementary strengths, they reined in a higher ratio of assignment completions; which, in government-speak, meant they left a huge dent in foreign intelligence if you threw them hard enough.

The Director's office was bullet, sound, and bullshit-proof. When they stepped in, the light joking around they shared during lunch and down the hallway dissipated. All four agents sobered once they continued into the harsh gray decor of their superior.

Pike stood near his desk, his back ramrod straight, but he acknowledged them with a gesture to come inside the room. He may have been strict, but working under his patient charisma inspired a very strong loyalty in his division, even to green upstarts like Agent Kirk.

It was impossible to describe the Director by those who knew him without glowing approval and honor painting every word. Pike was much older than those who served him, with weathered lines beaten into his skin. He radiated self-awareness and clarity that set him apart as early as his service in Desert Storm. With a confidence few men his age had, Pike delighted in his graying hairline, which in his case symbolized his wisdom and maturity. He was the living biography of a soldier who had seen everything and survived. His tactical prowess it had taken him to get where he ended up today found in the sharpness of his stare; that infamous gaze was both compassionate and stern, and could have belonged to any of the great generals in U.S. history.

But when those hard gray eyes zeroed in on Kirk, he knew he was on thin ice. The others saw him nothing more than their boss, the big guy who gave them the exciting missions. For Jim, there was something personal, because Pike and George Kirk were brothers-in-arms during their tour of duty in the Navy. His earliest memory of Pike had been when he handed over the folded flag to Winona at his father's funeral and then hoisted Jim onto his shoulders; Jim had simply been too young to understand his father died and just wanted to get a close look at a rocket shooting out of orbit into the clear blue sky. After that he continued to be a constant in Jim's life afterwards, more so than his own mother ever did.

He was the one whose place Kirk escaped to during his rebellious teen years. And, in Kirk's prime as a veteran, even pulled strings to send him to the National Intelligence University after completing his tour as a fellow Navy officer.

Somewhere along Kirk's self-destructive stumble through life, Pike had been the absolute trusted higher power he obeyed; God Himself couldn't hold a candle of influence. Maybe he replaced the father Kirk never had the chance to have, who knows. For anyone aware of their relationship, Kirk was Pike's unofficial son and pushed him the hardest out of all the other men. Pike knew Kirk could be capable of greatness like his father. If he reigned in the recklessness that came with his youth and applied himself, perhaps Kirk would be even greater than his predecessor.

Good luck.

Pike gestured to the seats in front of his desk, upon which lay four black covered folders. Just the sight of them made Kirk salivate and eager to learn their contents. Once they sat, the formalities began.

"Agent Kirk," Pike greeted him first and handed him a folder. Kirk wasted no time leafing through it while Agents Sulu, Scott, and Mitchell waited for theirs. "All four of you know why you're here."

Sulu let out a cautious sigh and shifted with discomfort in his seat. "Yes sir."

"Tae be fair," Scotty twisted his lips into a half-apologetic smile, his Scottish accent in full force. "Tha' tank wouldnae hae lasted as long as it did anyway."

Kirk looked up from the folder, smiled, cocked his fingers at Sulu, and pulled the trigger. "But that angle you sniped into? _Bam!_ Couldn't have done it better. And what's the big deal? We didn't botch the mission! We got in, assassinated a terrorist, and rode out into the sunset!"

"You escaped in a_ tank_, Kirk. Tell me, boys: what's the first rule of the CIA?" Pike folded his arms and leaned against the large desk, expecting a stupid answer. He got a stupid question instead.

"Officially or unofficially?" Mitchell piped up, unable to help himself. Kirk flashed an amused grin his way.

"Don't encourage him, Mitchell," Pike warned.

The young men looked at each other, sighed, and answered together in a bored drawl: _"We are not held accountable for any incident that may or may not have occurred."_

_"It was the other guy. No, __**that**_ _guy,"_ Kirk added with unnecessary aplomb, which earned him a three amused grins and a glare.

"The point of being in the CIA is that we don't take responsibility for any covert operations that could affect the stability of other nations," Pike reminded them with a severe frown. "How many Afghanistan news outlets did you see pointing a camera at you during your little hoedown?"

Kirk tried to flash Pike his best charming grin to abate the vein growing along his temple. It never worked, but he didn't believe in no-win scenarios. "Now wait a second…" Kirk sighed and closed the file without reading it. "The official word is that the _SEALS _went on a heroic suicide mission to usurp the terrorist cell in that village. The Navy should send us gift baskets for the easy glory."

Pike's frown took on the consistency of steel, cutting through Kirk's bullshit. "Listen, you four: I swear to God that your asses will be on the burner if you keep up with this cowboy swashbuckling garbage. This isn't a Tom Clancy film, and it sure as hell isn't a space opera. Get yourselves together or end up behind a desk for the rest of your careers. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir," Sulu and Scotty confirmed, reasonably chastised and meaning it. Mitchell said nothing, deciding silence might be the better alternative to save his ego, but he quickly nodded when Pike flashed a look of warning at him.

"Am I clear?" he repeated, louder than before, and this time his gaze now on Kirk.

In the middle of Pike's lecture, Kirk reopened the file and decided reading the dossier was a better use of his time than paying attention. He'd heard the same shit for five years. This wasn't his first rodeo. "What is this?" Kirk demanded instead, stabbing a finger at the paperwork on his lap. "You've got us on _SWAT_ detail? This is entry-level shit!"

"You're lucky you got _anything_, Kirk," Pike said, shoulders and face rigid by Kirk's lack of humility about the situation. "Rand was reluctant to give you any more field work. I convinced her that this was your last chance. Call this _Operation Don't-Screw-Up_."

* * *

"I can't believe this," Kirk grumbled. Scotty finished strapping Kirk into a bulletproof vest and seemed too happy not being on the field. Hiding in the van, working the instruments, and not getting shot at was Scotty's job typically. He was sure to be a lucky bastard this time since he could kick back and eat a hero sandwich while Kirk did all the dirty work.

"At least you'll have Scotty with you," Sulu offered with an apologetic grin as he secured his helmet. "He can serenade you with Scottish folk songs while I'm stuck listening to Agent Riley's panicked Irish."

Holding a finger up for quiet, Scotty busied himself instead by checking every weapon, clearing any potential jams and barking at the driver to check the oil.

Montgomery Scott was a mad genius, a man who would rather have the cold touch of a droid's flight paneling than the warm caress of a woman. He was an average-looking gent with an amused twinkle in his eyes that got him more attention than he deserved. It no doubt had to do with his wit and its crass European flavor that was always a hit in office parties. American women seemed to enjoy his rough-and-tumble Scotsman humor more than Kirk liked to admit.

Sulu and Mitchell had the same mission as Kirk, but he and Scotty were going to putz around in Springfield, Pennsylvania hunting for terrorist hackers while the other two would be halfway across the country razing a data center in Southern California.

Kirk had to read the dossier twice to make sure he got the location right. There were enough Springfields along the East Coast to form their own state, and he was disappointed to find they were taking the two-hour-long commute to Pennsylvania. Virginia's Springfield, in comparison, was just a bus ride away.

In his opinion, the sweetest deal belonged to the great James Tiberius Kirk. While he and Scotty had a higher risk of getting shot at, all Sulu's team had to do was flip a switch. It wasn't very much glamorous for a CIA agent.

One of the newer operatives, a lithe redheaded woman that was already turning heads, handed Sulu his radio gear and wished him good luck with a coquettish wink.

"Why, thank you," Sulu said in his most charming tone, and then laughed when Kirk rolled his eyes.

Hikaru Sulu was a notorious gentleman, one who used humility to his advantage. His Korean-Japanese ancestry made him both deadly on the field and in the first-world social jungle. He was a Princeton man, a literal prince always dressed to the nines, who preferred melee combat when able and always kept an _uchigatana _blade under his pillow for comfort instead of a sidearm.

At first glance, most people underestimated Sulu's efficiency as an agent. Nice guys finished last, they would say, and then end up bruised and beaten on the mat by one brutal motion of Sulu's arms, unaware that Sulu spent five years touring the front lines of Afghanistan. The man wasn't blind to surviving on his bare hands alone.

Sulu had already walked off when Scotty answered the quip, his typical slow response to jokes. He was always fashionably late to banter, even when he was early to the party.

"Aye, an' I feel sorry for yeh," Scotty responded to Sulu with a somber shake of his head. He turned away and helped Kirk and another agent load up the rest of the gear in the van. "Nothin' more vomit-inducin' than an Irishman's ballad!" Sulu laughed and slapped him on the back in farewell.

In the middle of heaving a giant duffel bag full of weapons, Kirk caught a glimpse of familiar dark hair and shouted, "Hey!"

There were slivers of gray creeping into the newcomer's once pitch-black sideburns, a product of genetics more than age, but the overall effect a distinguished grace. Gary Mitchell was Sulu's partner today, but he had been James Kirk's brother-in-arms back in the Navy, and had taken countless bullets for Kirk without ever keeping score.

Mitchell turned on instinct, already grinning and expecting this moment. They never separated without a proper goodbye; it wasn't good luck for a sailor to leave the high seas on an open note. Navy gentlemen fought together, stuck together, survived together. He was the older brother Sam had never been to Kirk though they could never be mistaken for siblings.

While Kirk had dusty blond hair and clear blue eyes that earned him many compliments, Mitchell was the opposite: the classic tall, dark, and handsome flavor. A popular tease Kirk enjoyed repeating was that if Mitchell hadn't been so straight, they probably would have been hitched right out of service by now. Elizabeth Dehner, the female doctor Mitchell was currently dating, had the same physical colorings as Kirk and if that wasn't Freudian, he didn't know what was.

Mitchell thumped the side of his and Sulu's black van, and implied that they were ready to go, when Kirk jumped from the back of his own to clap him on the shoulder. "Don't get killed out there, Gary! You too, Hikaru. _Zeitgeist represent!_"

_"Zeitgeist, hooah!"_ Sulu shot back over his shoulder and climbed into the van.

With a grin that promised they'll return, Mitchell grabbed the back of Kirk's neck and gripped it firm and reassuring like he always did before a mission. "You too, Jim. And you, Scotty! _Zeitgeist, hooyah!_"

Scotty poked his head out of the passenger's side window long enough to give them a thumbs-up. "Aye, I'll make sure tae instruments dunnae eat me! It's _Jim_ oo's gunna git shot in the arse! _Zeitgeist, booyah!_"

"Or blown up," Kirk mumbled under his breath. Even though he didn't consider himself to be superstitious, he still glanced around the bulletproofed steel van for some wood to knock on. Deciding such a lazy mission couldn't possibly need good luck with their aptitude, Kirk shook his head and forced himself to relax for the rest of the ride.

* * *

Pike had sworn he was getting the better mission out of the four, or maybe Kirk liked to believe he said that. Kirk called bullshit the moment he met the local Springfield SWAT team. They looked as competent as seasoned mall cops.

Yup, Pennsylvania had its lovely charms.

The mission seemed suspicious in its simplicity. They had to go in, apprehend possible terrorist hackers, and get pizza afterwards. These guys, however, weren't the usual bored teenage script-kiddies. CIA analytics reported that they were very sophisticated in their attacks and had even shut down North Korea's internet access for a week as a show of power. The attack wasn't that big of a deal in Kirk's opinion. Pyongyang had four known servers to rely on as opposed to the hundreds of thousands in the United States alone. No doubt them's the perks of being a closeted dictatorship stuck in the fifties.

On file, the big deal was they had DDoSed American government websites before, enough to creep into the FBI's secure databases and leak confidential information. It became a bigger deal when a good number of personal information ended up on the deep web for drooling conspiracy nerds and terrorist enthusiasts. The only reason the CIA got involved this time was evidence compiled from the trafficking: thousands of dollars in coin transactions were used for passports and private flights. Even worse, they were bouncing contraband between the US and Syria where the _Islamic State of Iraq and Levant_ conflict was in full force.

Pike's notes on the matter were worrisome. The FBI may have stumbled onto a possible ISIL checkpoint cell on American soil with the intention of sending American sympathizers to bolster ranks in Syria. By the dossier alone, this was now CIA jurisdiction.

The problem was the current mission. Preliminary shutdowns were reserved for the new guys, the recruits, the ones who had less of a chance to die on the field from a screw up. Agents hardly died in their own country after all. Pike sent his best and brightest anyways out of some punishment for the Afghanistan incident, Kirk was sure.

They traced a possible breadcrumb trail to five different locations in the States, one of which Sulu was raiding while Kirk ended up stuck with the team of hicks. Analysts were sure the other three positions were decoys to confuse them, but the Springfield one in Pennsylvania had the most transactions filtering on through before dissipating into the data center. If it really was the kingpin of the entire cell, Kirk had to enjoy being trapped in a van for a round-trip of almost five hours while contemplating his next strategy.

Halfway into Pennsylvania, Kirk joined the SWAT team as their obligatory CIA overseer and had promised Director Pike that this time there were to be no cowboy games like last mission. Except these 'seasoned' SWAT veterans were looking at him like a tick on a tit. That was when he realized this would not be a walk in the park, by-the-book mission accomplished bullshit.

"Got a problem taking orders from a government agent?" Kirk sneered through the relentless bouncing of the van. "Or are these just your welcoming faces?"

A noncommittal shrug here and there was his response. Kirk knew they would not be cooperative. He should write them up in his report, but he was a sucker for non-conformity, and refused to seem like a crabby ass over nothing like most bureaucrats.

He kind of wished he was a crabby ass. Almost.

They arrived at an apartment complex in the middle of the night. The local police department had already secured a perimeter by the time Kirk jumped out of the SWAT van and waited for Scotty and Seer's vehicle just moments behind. He slapped the side of it two times and Scotty poked his head out of the back, pointed at his headset, and gave him a thumbs up before shutting the door again.

Kirk might not trust the local cops, but he had Scotty as his eyes and ears. There was no one he preferred more behind the scenes than _Zeitgeist's_ faithful Scotsman.

He followed the rest of the SWAT into the perimeter, flashed his badge at a bored looking officer, and shook hands with the awaiting sergeant. She was a tall, dark beauty with an ugly scar across her right brow that made her look more striking than unattractive. Kirk couldn't help but admire the way she sharply ordered her men over her shoulder and then glared warily at him.

As expected, Scotty's voice trickled into the earpiece wired to the side camera strapped to his forehead. **[Oooh, ain't she a lovely lass,] **Scotty trilled. **[Give 'er a smile for me, will yah?]**

"Sergeant Calhoun, Springfield PD," she greeted with a curt expression.

Kirk ignored Scotty's commentary, but smiled on cue. "Agent Kirk, CIA." He jumped when one of his SWAT guys dropped his weapon with a loud clatter and rolled his eyes. Amateurs.

"Fancy," Calhoun noted, checking her clipboard first. "CIA? I thought the FBI would oversee this kind of operation."

"Yes, well… after the FBI failed to apprehend these hackers twice, the President decided a co-op would be the third time's charm," Kirk lied with a charming smile. As a friendly gesture, he accepted the clipboard from Calhoun while they made their preliminary rounds. There were officers still weaving around them with their radios up and yellow tape zigzagging the blocks. The scene looked more like a bomb threat perimeter than a fugitive one.

**[Gettin' video feed on tae police cameras. Keep the lady busy fer a few seconds, Kirk. I'mma gonna dip into their police scanners.]**

Calhoun suddenly frowned. "Let's make this clear then. My men are already burned out from the FBI sticking their noses into our businesses the last couple of weeks. Try to do the same now and you may get more than you bargained for."

"That almost sounded like a threat," Kirk quipped, but he'd known about the hostility his 'team' felt from the moment he'd arrived. He seriously wished Pike had given SWAT duty to Agent Finney or someone more bureaucratic for this snooze-fest.

"Not a threat, Agent Kirk. Just friendly advice. Non-negotiable."

Kirk snorted and mentally filed the threat under_ 'Don't Care'_. "Tell me, what's the situation so far?"

He didn't need a recap, but Scotty needed time and following by-the-book as Kirk knew she would, Calhoun explained the plan. Lack of love for protocol not withstanding, Kirk knew how to get the job done. His running mouth was what typically caused a lot of problems. This mission shouldn't be hard: grab the SWAT team, secure the perimeter around apartment #J5, arrest the potential terrorist, and seize the computer for evidence. Kirk could practically memorize it in his sleep.

How the FBI had fucked it up _twice_ was beyond even Kirk's understanding.

**[Go' established video and audio feed on all fronts, Kirk. I can even update yeh on what's pissin' in the alley two blocks down. Nothin's goin' in or out without us knowin'.]**

"Acknowledged. I'm going in." Witching hour was near so Kirk pulled his men into position. He took a moment to establish secondary radio contact with Calhoun a block over to make sure all squads were in position. They broke up into halves to surround the apartment door and really, Kirk was amazed they did it quietly enough. It didn't seem the neighbors heard so much as a peep during their climb up the stairs and into the hallway.

"On my mark," Kirk ordered as a few stragglers were climbing up the stairs, but it fell on deaf ears.

One SWAT officer suddenly broke down the door with a heavy boot, which startled Kirk and definitely the neighbors. Their panicked shouts did nothing more than exacerbate how pissed off Kirk became. All officers except for Kirk charged in with weapons and shouts. Swearing, Kirk banged the back of his helmeted head against the stucco wall and mouthed, _'Fuck me.'_

"SWAT went in too hot, Scotty," he called it in first. "I'm going in!" Kirk removed himself from his perch against the wall and followed after with haste, his own gun raised and flashlight flickering in the darkened room.

"PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! DON'T MOVE!"

The living room was immaculate and ordered, with trinkets that delineated an Iraqi or Syrian resident. Was their hacker truly working for ISIL, Kirk wondered, and quickly decided that he didn't need to add racial profiling to his next psychological evaluation.

Bathroom cleared. Kitchen cleared. Bedroom cleared. Everything was so clean and ordered, it seemed more like a museum than a place that someone was living in.

**[Status, Kirk? You're soundin' fuzzy an' it's too dark in there ter get a proper vid feed.]**

"Looks like an all clear," Kirk informed, shaking his head while the SWAT secured the rest of the apartment. There were muffled shouts coming through one wall from horrified neighbors but he ignored it. Their cover was blown already. "I'll find the computer, but it looks like our hacker's Middle Eastern."

**[Heh, Director Pike's gunna love hearin' that. Like we dunnae 'ave enough people in tha' department.]**

"Yeah, I'm sure the division's gonna enjoy more paperwork," Kirk frowned at a made prayer corner. He made a mental note about it and then grabbed his radio shoulder mic to contact Calhoun while examining the electronics left plugged in the hacker's bedroom. The computer located at the farthest corner didn't seem tampered, but Kirk was careful and pressed a few keys hoping to get it going out of sleep mode. The monitor seemed unresponsive even though the monitor light button was on.

"Found the computer," Kirk told Scotty through the mic. "It's a black screen."

Scotty sounded puzzled. **[Yer sayin' it's off?]**

Kirk squinted his eyes at the glowing blue button and double-checked the computer case. "No, it isn't." Before he could check further, the screen flickered without warning and plunged itself into a mess of machine code. The moment Kirk recognized it, he realized it was deleting files.

"Shit!" Kirk shouted and pounded on the escape key. When that didn't work, he tried swishing the mouse around to prevent the purging of the computer, only to fail that as well. "Fuck! Someone get a tech in here!" he snapped over his shoulder.

**[What's happenin'?!]**

"It's deleting something, Scotty!" Kirk's computer skills were above average, but the functions running down the screen were in a language similar to Assembly. It was so incomprehensible to him, it might as well have been a second language. The screen flashed blank again and then ran more code, this one seemingly like it was trying to recover data, but Kirk didn't want to take any chances. For all he knew, the machine was uploading plans for World War Three to ISIL or Al Qaeda.

He went caveman on it in desperation and yanked the power cord out of the wall, ripping the loose outlet box out with it. With another flash, everything died.

"I want this computer taken for examination," Kirk ordered one of the officers before clicking his personal mic on. "I turned the computer off, Scotty, but I don't know if I stopped it in time. Fuck!"

**[Better than lettin' it finish its compilin',] **Scotty answered, his sigh sober. **[Establishin' radio contact with Sergeant Calhoun. I'm gunna see if I can find anyone suspicious on camera.]**

Kirk sighed and patted the monitor once for good luck before preparing for his favorite part of the whole gig: snooping. He slapped on some surgical gloves and went to town rifling through the bad guy's things for information as to his whereabouts, his identity, even his motives. Kirk checked for an address book, forgotten phones and tablets, or any notes and papers that could help with the investigation.

He could hear one of the SWAT guys yell at neighbors outside to return to their homes and shook his head. They were unprofessional morons without an ounce of discipline.

_This must be how Pike feels all the time_, Kirk thought with a self-deprecating grin. Then again, cops weren't typically hired for their brains. Under-qualification was even encouraged in resumes. Kirk could at least boast that he had a legit criminal justice degree and that was the bare _minimum_ of what other degrees he had that made him good at what he did now.

The desk holding up the computer was wooden and free of dust, which was surprising. When his gloved fingers checked and tapped around the surface for any hidden drawers, he found a peculiar roughness where it should be polished. With a curious frown, he picked up his flashlight and pointed the light at it.

Someone had been scratching at the desk, almost scribbling until it was deep enough to be legible. Thousands of dollars of tuition spent on foreign lingual aptitude allowed him to recognize that it was Arabic. At least he_ thought_ so.

Kirk pulled out his phone and took a few pictures of the carvings. He'll have to remind himself to check with the Linguistics department about this. It could be vital message like a gang motto or coordinates.

Panicked shouting came from the kitchen after he took a few more pictures. Kirk pocketed his cell and ran into the living room to find one of the SWAT members pointing his gun out to the emergency fire escape.

Shoving the useless cop aside, Kirk stuck his head out the window and found the source of what they were pointing at: a desperate dark-haired man had been trying to hide himself against the brick wall while scaling the ladders halfway down.

"Shit!" Kirk holstered his flashlight and ordered them to scramble and cover the alleyways while he slipped through the window to pursue the hacker. Why the SWAT didn't chase after the suspect and just sat on their thumbs waiting for him was a mystery. He chalked it up to further incompetence. "Stop! Police!"

It was a reflex for Kirk to say ridiculous shit like that and shook his head. No one would be stupid enough to follow a cop's orders while running. Kirk bridged the distance faster by forgoing the ladder and jumping from platform to platform. The shuddering, rusty mess of the fifty-year-old fire escape reminded him of its fragility with every move he made.

"Scotty! Caught sight of a suspect in pursuit: male, at least six feet, dark hair, looks Middle Eastern. Putting it on visual!"

The hacker looked up for a moment as the fire escape swayed, almost knocking him over when the stairs started to warp. Kirk had trouble ID-ing him, as he was too busy trying not to break his neck, but he was positive the guy was suspicious enough to warrant an arrest. It helped that he was _running_ away at least.

Scotty's voice was shaky from the connection, but he confirmed. **[Got yer visual, Kirk. Also contacted Calhoun to yer location. If ye can politely ask 'im to sit still so I can get a positive ID, I would very much appreciate it.]**

Wiseass.

Just as the hacker hopped onto the first story's platform, Kirk's over-zealousness to catch up caused part of the shaky infrastructure to snap. With a shout, he almost toppled off the halfway point.

**[Kirk?! I 'eard shoutin'! Status?!]**

Kirk ignored him and grabbed a hold of the railing, but just by the tip of his fingers. He swore loud enough for the rest of the apartment to hear and tried to heave himself up, not exactly amused that he was swinging around like he was on the goddamn monkey bars. His thoughts were focused on losing more time before he lost the terrorist for good.

The bar tight in his palms whined under his weight and snapped. Kirk closed his eyes and felt his breath leave him when landed on a platform with his back until that too caved. At this rate, he expected himself to shatter his spine on the fall down or who knows what the hell else while the hacker dashed away into the sunset.

If the fall didn't kill him, _Bones_ was going to.

He let out a scream when whole thing came down with him. The large crash shook the asphalt beneath him and the rest of the alleyway became obscured by dust and debris. He could hear shouts of alarm from far away alongside the ringing in his ears. Ringing was good. It was the sweet, sweet sound of life.

The blackness buzzed and spun, until it proved too much for Kirk, and he passed out.

When he came to, he found himself underneath a few stairs and metal bars, covered in enough dirt it made his black uniform look naturally gray. He had been one lucky son of a bitch. By some miracle, most of the structure had missed toppling on him and instead crashed onto the adjacent building. Scotty's voice flickered through the haze Kirk was feeling.

**[Ye hear that explosion, Ken? Git on a bus! Kirk?! Shit, status report, Kirk!]**

Coughing out dust and with adrenaline coursing like sweet nectar through his veins, Kirk pulled the debris off of him and flipped onto his back. He howled as pain raced up his arm and he dared himself not to look at the damage. Moving was good. It meant he wasn't paralyzed. Pain was good too. It meant that he was truly alive.

"S-Scotty…" Kirk rasped out before wheezing out more dust. "Fire escape collapsed… call a bus…"

**[Bus on the way, Kirk. Remain in position.]**

His right arm seemed mangled and fucked up on closer examination, but he couldn't really tell except for the angle. The angle was unnatural enough he was ready to vomit right there.

Focusing on something else other than his arm, he found another body trapped in the debris. Kirk ignored Scotty's orders and wasted no time shuffling over to flip his unresponsive target onto his back and read him his rights. "You're… under arrest for first and second degree cyber… cyberatta…" The man didn't move. Didn't _breathe_.

"…shiiiit." Kirk checked for a pulse with his uninjured hand and found none. That was when he noticed blood seeping from the stomach where what looked like a pipe the guy impaled on. "Fuck!" he yelled, his voice hoarse and raspy for someone, anyone to hear him. "Get me a bus!"

He couldn't feel anything with his broken arm now, which was a probability from the adrenaline. Any chest compressions to resuscitate the suspect would be impossible in his current state. Resigned, he fell back from where he knelt and took a shuddering breath. The sky above was still foggy from the dust.

What he got in return for his shouts were sirens.

* * *

Bones ended up in a shouting match with the intercom when Pike summoned Kirk to his office just minutes after slinging his arm. After almost five minutes of word jousting he had to cave and let Kirk go with a grumble and a bucket of painkillers complete with a doggy bag. He couldn't refuse Pike's order when it wasn't a life-threatening injury after all. Kirk kind of wished he could though. How could he have fucked up such an easy mission?

Komack was predictably waiting in Pike's office this time to put Kirk in his place.

"Great job, Agent Kirk. Not only did you kill our only link to _Operation Gemini_, but you left the computer in the hands of the Springfield PD! They won't hand it over until they cleared it themselves!"

Now according to Pike, Director James Komack had a drastic case of premature balding because of Kirk's shenanigans. Kirk remembered giving Pike an indulgent smirk about it, after all, it _was_ status quo for at least _one_ good-looking James in an intelligence agency. The poor guy even looked like he was _eating_ his way through the stress this career caused him.

Komack was a bureaucrat, plain and simple, whose tour of duty comprised of dragging unwilling young men to the Army during the Vietnam War drafts. He saw more violence from protesting American people than Vietnamese soldiers.

Agents who didn't follow protocol like Kirk tend to make Komack infamously prance about like a goddamn loon on steroids. He had a perverse hangup yelling at fuck-ups apparently, although Kirk had enough drugs pumped into his system to find it more amusing than irritating at the moment.

He opened his mouth, ready to give Komack a drugged-up retort, before Director Pike wisely intervened.

"Agent Kirk was not responsible for Arman Faziz's death. According to Agent Scott's report, Kirk followed protocol and called in throughout the raid. He even tried to salvage the data until the rest of his team caught wind of the suspect. He made a judgment call." Pike had a remarkable way of sounding both professional and downright paternal, settling both nerves of the other two men during the debriefing. He approached Kirk's chair and rested a strong weathered hand on the back of it, giving Kirk the solidarity he needed to stay calm. "Also, the drive isn't destroyed. You said so yourself that one of your techs secured a line to the computer during the purge and managed to reverse most of the deletion."

"_Most_," Komack spat out like acid and turned once more to Kirk, his face red and ready to explode. "Then someone cut the connection by turning the power off!"

"I tried to salvage the data!" Kirk hissed, uncaring about bullshit professionalism when his career was on the line. "How the hell was it possible for me to know it was one of your nerds hacking the computer? Director…" he turned to Pike, angry and desperate. "I didn't botch it up!"

Pike regarded him with a resigned exhale out his nose and then turned to Komack. "Maybe we can work out a compromise. Compared to the last operation, Kirk was practically a Boy Scout this time."

Komack stiffened. "I know that ridiculous look. You're not even_ considering_ pulling Kirk out of the—"

"—can't punish him if he genuinely didn't know," Pike reasoned. "Should we blame _all_ of our agents due to acts of God?"

Kirk's nose wrinkled at the mention of God, but to his bewilderment, Pike's words hit gold and Komack's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Very well. But I'm handing over one of my own agents to oversee Kirk. My request." Without so much as a response from Pike, Komack waltzed out of the office. Or it _looked_ like it. The drugs were doing weird things to Kirk's brain at the moment. Even the gray walls seemed to be turning a healthy shade of pink.

Kirk shook his head, glared at the door and then turned to Pike, his frown curious. "Religious much, Pike?"

"I'm not," Pike gave him a grim smirk. "Plausible deniability. I'm doing my job and putting the blame on someone else."

Whoever said Pike didn't have an ounce of humor in his body needed to reevaluate that opinion. "You're gonna get a lot of Hail Marys for that, sir," Kirk slurred with a toothy grin.

* * *

Kirk had expected that Komack would follow through with assigning him one of his men to collaborate with. What he _didn't_ expect was being stuck behind a desk and work from the sidelines. He ended up fuming at the news, spitting out expletives that should be deemed unprofessional, as he was walking side-by-side with Pike. The older man let him air out his frustrations with patience befitting his character; any other senior agent would have written him up for the language.

But Pike wasn't just any kind of superior. He usually had a first class seat to Kirk's true emotions, hell, even _welcomed_ them. Except this wasn't a private room to air grievances, so Pike had to play the director card in their public walk to the cafeteria.

"It's out of my hands, Kirk," Pike said, his words quiet to avoid the growing traffic of agents walking around. "The hacker's death wasn't the absolute reason. That was simply the icing on the crap cake you've made so far of your career."

Kirk scoffed, wondering whose side Pike was on. "Don't tell me he's still hung up on _Operation Baja_…"

"Not just _Baja_, but _White Space_, and that drunken brawl you had a month ago with two FBI agents…"

"To be fair, the other guy _pretended _he was an FBI agent," Kirk interrupted with a wolfish grin. "He was an intern for the NSA."

Pike shook his head before nodding in greeting to a few agents that walked past them. "And whose fault was that, James? Shoot first, ask questions later. You disrupted an entire apartment complex AND caused collateral damage to a fire escape…"

"Why don't you blame the SWAT team for that? They charged in before I gave them the go-ahead," Kirk countered. "And it wasn't like I shot the damn thing! It collapsed when I was trying to apprehend the terrorist!"

Pike whirled in on him once the traffic died down, his words soft as he opted to take the paternal route to soothe Kirk's frazzled nerves. "I understand. However, my hands are tied on this. Komack's been looking to blow smoke up my ass about you since _Operation Baja_ and this was a good reason to do it. Lick your wounds and call it a day, Kirk. It's not permanent."

Kirk stiffened in anger, but the warning in Pike's eyes forced him to swallow his pride and consider his next words. "So… I guess this means I'll have to apologize to the nerd? He must've been pissed when I went Tarzan on the computer."

"That better be all you do," Pike snorted and escorted him to the cafeteria. "And I'm _begging_ you to be on your best behavior tomorrow. Remember that your new partner is one of _Komack's_ men. He'll be using him to watch your ass for sure—maybe get you fired for shooting rubber bands at him."

"Must be a field day for Internal Affairs if we can't trust each other because of shitty bureaucracy," Kirk gave as a parting shot before heading to his boys. They were already eating at their regular table and gossiping before they caught Kirk heading over.

Scotty and Mitchell cheered with exuberance when he approached them, waving their water bottles around. Kirk smiled and accepted the claps on his shoulders though he had to shove Mitchell once or twice for messing with his injured arm. Bones putting it on a heavy sling to heal made things dumb and awkward to move in, so it took Kirk a good couple of seconds to maneuver his way into a chair.

Sulu frowned at him with thin pity once he was seated. "Word is you got reassigned, Jim—"

"—temporarily reassigned," Kirk corrected, his smile already faltering. Sulu didn't need to repeat it, but he did, and now the consequences of Kirk's actions tonight was finally taking root. "I'll be back on the field or I'll _kill_ myself first."

"Let none of the docs hear that," Mitchell grinned, sliding into banter. "Especially Liz. She loves basket cases. Gets off seeing how they tick."

"That why she's dating you, Gary?" Kirk teased back, which successfully got his mind off of desk work. For his schtick, he earned two yowls from the burn and a dinner roll thrown at him, which was pretty tame in comparison. He dodged it easily but then watched over his shoulder in horror as the biscuit tumbled onto the floor and rolled into Pike's shoe across the cafeteria.

Confused, their director picked up the biscuit, realized dinner roll plus idiocy equaled _Zeitgeist_, and glared at them before tossing it into the trash. The man he was talking to paused from the interruption and glanced at all of them until he locked eyes with Kirk last.

The man's eyes were dark from afar, almost cold and searching. Kirk was on edge the moment the agent focused on him, as if he was caught in an alarm system and had to submit his brain for a frisking. He hoped it was just the drugs messing with him.

"Is that…?" Kirk inquired, alarmed when the young man broke eye contact and turned back to Pike acting like the roll thing didn't happen at all.

Scotty squinted hard at the dark agent and then took another swig of his drink just to make sure his own eyes weren't messing with him. "Aye, isn't he the Syrian Ambassador's son opposing ISIL?"

"_Daesh_ is more fitting for those fuckers. They hate that name more," Sulu snorted. "That's Analyst Spock Grayson. He's the new analyst prodigy the Kurds gifted to us in exchange for weapons and gear. You don't see him much though. He belongs to the_ Information Operations Center Analysis Group_. All hush, hush, deep web hacker stuff."

"Wonder what Pike's talking to him for," Kirk murmured. It was arresting to see how Spock did or didn't move. It was deliberate, but not.

Unlike Kirk, who enjoyed talking while re-enacting events using his hands with an enthusiasm that had earned many praise from people, Spock let the stiffness of his shoulders do the talking. He gave away very little while still being animated in his words. Maybe it was just a Kurdish thing, but Kirk wasn't alone in his fascination.

Many people had stopped their conversations and dining to just _stare_ at Spock like he was some kind of exotic animal.

"Pike sure is laying on the praise all over the desert scuttler, isn't he?" Mitchell jeered, thumping on Kirk's own stiffening back. They continued to watch their director and Spock engage where they left off in conversation. "I heard he's the one who saved your ass by hacking into that terrorist's computer and recovering the information before it got deleted."

Kirk was far too busy noting that Pike was giving Spock his utmost attention, treating him like a respectable agent. In the meantime, he treated Kirk as if he was a teenager that just wrecked the company car. Through the haze of the drugs, a sharp pang of jealousy hit him.

He could do nothing but stare, unsure whether he should be affected by how exotic and handsome Analyst Grayson was. Or maybe he should despise him for commanding Pike's attention in a way Kirk had never done.

The throbbing of his shoulder and arm, broken in four places in the name of America, decided on it being more of the latter. Kirk risked his ass on the line day-by-day to protect the US. Yet one little hacking spree on one shitty terrorist computer causes the entire universe to jump up and praise the guy?

How fucked up was that?

Sulu caught Kirk's jaw tightening at the scene and nudged Mitchell away. "Uh-oh, daddy-problems again, Gary. Best not get in the way this time."

"I don't have daddy issues," Kirk snapped.

"See that? Classical neglected response," Mitchell joined the tease. "You know what the manly cure is, Jim? A _beer_, so you can forget about that shit. Let's have a celebratory shakedown, my treat."

Scotty hooted and pounded his water bottle onto the steel table in agreement. "Aye! They got this new Scottish pub in downtown McLean… said the beer's imported all the way from the motherland! I'll get Ken ter DD!"

Kirk wasn't even sure if Ken could reach the_ brake pedals_ of the company SUV seeing the man was five feet on his own without standing on his tiptoes. Then again, he'd be too drunk to care that Ken would need a stack of phone books to sit on as their honorary designated driver.

Beaming with approval, Sulu smacked Kirk on the shoulder to get him to follow, this time successful in dislodging Kirk's stare at Spock. "Now _that's _a plan, Jim. C'mon, Pike's got the short end of the stick here. He's stuck talking semantics to the living computer and we get to enjoy some actual human contact, _Zeitgeist_-styled."

He had a fucking good point. Kirk snorted at Spock and Pike and let his friends pull him along the opposite direction, missing the curious glance Spock gave his back before they left the compound for the civilian world.


	2. 002

**Warning: **Possible dubcon.

* * *

**Chapter 002**

This wasn't the upbeat, singles-only environment Kirk enjoyed, but he found himself okay with its sobriety after the chaos of his last mission.

_Mackenzie's_ was a kitschy European-styled tavern that doubled as a small restaurant. The dining area housed few customers, and the all-night bar had even fewer seats occupied. There was a quaint collection of patrons gathered around the bar, but most were lounging or talking too comfortably to be a singles venue. Sometimes people glanced at the TV to cheer or boo at a rare fumble or touchdown, but everyone was more content conversing to each other about work, families, or that asshole who cut them off on the freeway this morning.

Maybe Kirk was getting old, or maybe it was the cocktail of painkillers in his system. The thought of going into a loud nightclub to get sloshed with the occasional bump and grind instead earned him a headache.

The menu above the bar was garish, dripping in Gaelic, and the font looked like it sprang out of a Tolkien novel. If he couldn't recognize anything familiar like a Budweiser, Kirk didn't trust himself to drink from the tap, not with his extraordinary list of allergies.

He and Mitchell dropped into seats by the wall and let Scotty do the ordering for them. Sulu, ever the budding socialite, occupied himself instead by scoping out a tiny pool of potential minglers over by the pool table.

Operative Ken Seer, being the designated driver and Scotty's usual co-pilot during missions, had been wise enough to steer himself away from the bar and tapped away on his phone from a booth in the corner. His addiction with Facebook freemium games was as well-known as his height deficiency; not even the possibility of hooking up tonight could stop him from checking on his Farmville plot.

In recent memory, Seer filled two pages of Kirk's work email with invitations to the stupid game. Kirk blocked and kicked him off his friends list for that stunt. He remembered Scotty laughing when Kirk complained.

Karma came knocking Scotty's door when Ken turned around and molested his email instead with invitation spam. If Kirk had suggested Scotty as a new victim, well...

The IT department later folded about that. It would be a breach of national security, they had said, for fellow agents friending each other on personal social media accounts. Kirk and Scotty both received commendations after an aggressive lobbying campaign which, on official record, did _not_ include blackmail and bribery.

Bonus points that the campaign got rid of Kirk's admirers. Mark Moreau had kept spamming private messages with offers to go out for dinner if he failed on asking him in person. Now Moreau just annoyed him at _work_, which Kirk was still working on rectifying with little success.

Despite the lobbying, Seer was a good sport, freemium banning aside. Maybe it helped that Seer and Scotty were super best friends. From what Kirk remembered, they ended up reassigned in a small outpost in the Yukon for an entire year before Kirk even joined the CIA. Their bromance was near legendary on the compound.

The evening rolled out in a lazy pace. Sulu's inspection of the establishment came up with a half-hidden karaoke machine instead of potential dates, so Mitchell and Scotty jumped into the fray and began a drunken duet of Journey songs to entice the crowd, completely tone-deaf, and enough that Kirk had to bury his head into his good arm to stifle his laughter.

Sulu tried pulling Kirk off his stool to join them a few songs later, but he was having none of that. He had a sense of pride. Singing was for showers and nowhere else, thank you very much.

"I can't sing," Kirk said with a snort and shrugged off Sulu. "Give me the mic and the whole place will vacate faster than an anthrax scare."

Balked at the response, Mitchell shook his head at Kirk and pointed the cheap wireless microphone in his direction. In a grandiose movement that earned howls from the ladies, he jumped off the stage to see why Kirk was being uncooperative. "Look at this lying asshole!" The tiny crowd of drunken listeners cheered in agreement.

"Isn't that the unofficial name for our jobs?" Sulu asked Scotty, who then let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Jim can _sing_," Mitchell said, his words confident and magnified now he was hugging the microphone to his lips and purring in a tipsy stupor. "I know he_ caaaaan_."

Kirk snorted and returned to his beer. "You're full of shit."

"Picture it: NIU, 2007," Mitchell plopped himself on the stool next to Kirk, and sat the mic down. Sulu and Scotty grabbed seats from a nearby table and started scooching close like third graders who'd just seen a frog on the classroom wall while Mitchell regaled his tale. "I was in my second year of studies working on the admission for the Strategic Leadership Course in DC."

"Was that your fourth or _fifth_ try?" Kirk shot back all-too-pleasantly, turning in his seat. "And Pike says _I'm_ the one who's horrible at paperwork."

"Silence, peon," Mitchell said, raising a finger. Rolling his eyes, Kirk mimed zipping his lips and decided that the moose head that hung on the wall by the TV made a better friend to him than these guys. "Actually, point taken. I was never good at writing essays or theses. Jim doesn't want to admit it, but he was a nerd for that. A stack of books with legs."

Sulu's frown implied disbelief. "Jim was the _better _academic?"

"Pull me other leg!" Scotty laughed.

"I have such good friends," Kirk said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, Jim's always been the bookworm, but that's kind of the point of the story," Mitchell continued. "He prioritized his studies better than I did, so he had a lot of free time when I didn't. When he wasn't trying to hit on someone, which was all the time, you found him in the computer labs just kicking back with a book. Jim read anything he could get his nerdy fingers on: non-fiction, scientific journals, hell, a fucking _thesaurus_! What he doesn't know…" his gaze slid to Kirk, who raised an eyebrow with suspicion, "…is that he does things without knowing it while he's reading. Like _sing_."

Kirk laughed. "Fuck off."

"I got it on camera," Mitchell said, deadpan, and Kirk snapped his mouth closed in immediate horror. "Remember when I came down to the labs one day to ask you to check my rough draft? Well, I found you alone in there hamming it up with show tunes." He fished into his front pocket and wiggled his cellphone in Kirk's face. "Proof enough, Sinatra?"

When Kirk paled, Scotty made a grab for his own phone. "Gimme tae title to this vid!"

"I need to see this," Sulu agreed and pulled out his iPhone. "I need this in my life right now."

Kirk reached for a handful of mixed beer snacks until he realized there were nuts in it. With a huff, he thought _'fuck it'_ and tossed the entire bowl in Mitchell's direction, careful not to touch the almonds. Bones would kill him before the anaphylactic shock did.

Mitchell just continued to laugh with peanuts in his hair and tiny pretzels on the lapels of his jacket.

"Knock it off!" Jim snarled. "I'm injured here!"

"You're the one assaulting _me_!" Mitchell teased and in less than a minute, they were playing an old video on Scotty's phone, and apparently filmed with a _toaster_ since the quality ended up pixelated to hell. But it was clear enough to incriminate Kirk, who viewed it with horror. He had no memory of this.

_"Lamarque! His death is the hour of fate. The people's man… his death is the sign we awaaait!"_

Oh god.

Scotty had to stand up and raise the phone away when Kirk tried to snatch the incriminating video. Mitchell laughed and climbed over Kirk's seat to hold him from behind while they watched. Kirk squirmed like a babe in Mitchell's grip and thanks to his broken arm, couldn't do shit about it. This was definitely article two, paragraph five of the _CIA Interrogation Manifesto_.

He had half a mind to complain to Human Resources.

His twenty-two year old self was leaning backwards on a chair in shitty 240p resolution, his feet on the table between computers, back to the camera. He was belting out a passable rendition of _Les Miserables 'Red and Black'_ while thumbing through a familiar-looking book.

Kirk remembered the book, a Carl Sagan number called _Broca's Brain_, and he recalled how fond he was of it. He ended up engrossed in its pages between midterm papers, and couldn't put it down until he finished. With a miserable sigh, Kirk realized that the video might be real.

For the record, he didn't enjoy show tunes, well, maybe a few. There were a few pieces that got stuck in his head while working on his political thesis, which he blamed on past girlfriends and their obsession with catchy pop songs. The last boyfriend he had before graduating loved musical theater and had made him see _Wicked_ so many times, Kirk still refused to touch any kind of _Wizard of Oz_ apocrypha, and wouldn't for the rest of his life. As far as he was concerned, _Oz: The Great and Powerful_ didn't exist.

"Stop pouting, Jim," Mitchell grinned and brushed an almond out of his hair. The video ended and Kirk was short of breaking open his beer bottle so he could shank him East Coast style. "You were good! If you weren't such a good shot, you'd have been on Broadway by now. Like a hammy Prince Charming in one of those parody musicals where they let the Disney guys off the leash."

Kirk flushed when two ladies nearby giggled as they eavesdropped. He snorted to himself and returned to his ninth or tenth beer, his manhood now in question. Musicals? No way. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Gary."

Mitchell just shrugged and climbed off of him for the stage. A few people were dithering near the karaoke machine and he was hogging the mic. He had his fill teasing Kirk for the night, with any luck.

Kirk wasn't sure what kind of beer he had, but it took the edge off his humiliation and made it the best in the world to him. Scotty called it a particular brand of craft beer from his homeland because American beer's shit and Kirk agreed with the statement. Budweiser were proud to say they aged their beer out of beechwood and proved it since it always tasted like stale air.

The aftertaste was bittersweet and complicated. Like his men. Or women. _Both._

Scotty implied that the tavern was brand-spanking new, but Kirk realized Scotty's been talking out his ass about it being exclusive. When they'd arrived, the bar seemed almost deserted, but now a crowd formed. And, _shit_, these were faces Kirk _knew_.

CIA agents from different branches trickled in, and soon over half the clientele were CIA or friends of CIA. Kirk learned to recognize them by their mannerisms and concealed weapons early on. Hell, Agent Stanley walked around with a pistol strapped to the inside of his thigh. Everyone and their grandmother could see it a mile away because of his tight jeans.

This place looked more like a fucking government convention than a civilian bar. So much for keeping work and social lives separate. All they needed was a kiosk of matching T-shirts.

Kirk's thoughts drifted to his_ 'FBI - Female Breast Inspector'_ gag sweatshirt and possible suggestive acronyms for CIA versions when he almost took a face plant into his coaster. Sulu had just jumped on his back in some weird-ass gay hug.

"Dude…" Kirk moaned. His elbow in the sling was digging into the edge of the counter, causing it to throb with discomfort. "It's not you, it's me… okay, it _is_ you. Just not fond the Korean beef, bro." Sulu let up on the pressure but stayed too close for Kirk's liking.

"Shh! Look, look…" Sulu uttered, his breath smelled of amaretto and lemon juice. His fingers prodded into Kirk's uninjured shoulder to get his attention. "See that guy over there? Blond curls…"

Kirk sighed and tilted his head until he caught a glimpse of curled dark-blond locks brushing a young looking face in the corner of his eye.

He recognized the boy from work though they never worked together. Because he'd looked so young at a first glance, Kirk had been positive he either was someone's kid taking a tour of the non-covert part of the building or an intern. Analyst Chekov was neither of those things, and had higher clearance for Russian counter-intelligence than even_ he_ did. His features were innocent and boyish, puppy-like, and he ducked and wove around the office with a childlike excitement that was almost contagious.

But he'd heard seedy things about the kid's heritage, so Kirk knew better than to underestimate him. Russian agents, like the KGB, were hardcore. To this day, the CIA was still investigating and uncovering sleeper agents who had spent_ decades_ as American citizens, raising entire families just to perfect their sincerity. Chekov was the offspring of second generation KGB parents, who had accepted asylum for valuable information about the Cold War. It was likely for foreign agents to get used to the comfort and stability the US offered, especially if they hailed from war-torn countries with even worse economies. The CIA had benefited from their betrayals.

The boy was waving his vodka around and chatting it up with Analyst Uhura from the Linguistics sector. Like the rest of them, she was still in her work clothes, wearing a navy blue suit skirt ensemble that showed off those lovely long legs.

"The jailbait twink?" he asked stupidly, more interested in the way Uhura's dark stockings sculpted those perfect thighs instead.

"He's twenty-one!" Sulu snapped, then pouted, then detached himself from Kirk to slide into the seat next to him, defeated. "You think he's too young for me?"

"No! Nooo…" Kirk reassured him with a drunken grin. He hadn't realized Sulu swung that way since it was _women_ who approached and offered him little trips to coffee shops or dinners. Sulu never turned down an offer when he had free time and word around the water cooler was that Sulu was a goddamn saint to the ladies, an actual officer and a gentleman.

When the man had his own personal female fanbase to choose from, finding Sulu showing genuine interest in the same sex was downright surprising. "Hey Hikaru…" Kirk began with mild confusion. "You actually interested in dudes?"

"Of course not…" Sulu replied in mild offense and seemed thoughtful. "Look, I'm not going to sleep with Pavel! I'm just saying."

"Uh-huh," Kirk mumbled, scatterbrained from the drink, and decided that Sulu was backtracking into his Gucci-filled closet. "So what? You're trying to pair him with me? I kinda like my men a little more my height if you get my drift."

As Kirk expected, Sulu stiffened in defense. A tell-tale sign of homoerotic jealousy, or, Kirk supposed in their case, _bi-erotic_ jealousy. Or whatever.

"Look, you're better at guy-romancing than I am," Sulu stressed in Kirk's ear so no one else could eavesdrop. "I'm used to women, I like women, but I like Pavel too. Help me out here. Do you think I'm just getting my wires crossed because the kid's adorable?"

"Might be the accent," Kirk said thickly, remembering an incident where he crossed paths with Chekov. He couldn't help but smile when the kid's thick Russian timbre took him by surprise. "If he looked more like Konstantin Kamynin, I'd have already jumped him by now. Russian fever hits everyone, my boy, nothing to be embarrassed about."

Sulu fell quiet, unsure, but unable to stop tossing 'inconspicuous' glances at the guy. Kirk knew it was more than a passing fancy. He too had been a sucker for blond curls at one point. Hell, he almost married a few blonds in his day in his blind infatuation.

Mitchell's girlfriend once called Kirk's blond fixation an_ oedipus-complex_, common for men to 'replace' absent mothers with lovers who looked similar. All doctors, save for Bones, enjoyed over-complicating things. The truth was he just loved blond women. They partied more. He hadn't thought about Winona in the last five years.

In Sulu's case, he was showing the tell-tale signs of blond fever on top of Russian. A dangerous combination. It might even be lethal in copious dosages.

Kirk had no choice but to swallow the bitterness of his thoughts and the memory of ghosts of girlfriends past for the present. Office romances were a sore spot for Kirk, but he decided he should offer some encouraging words out of duty to a friend.

"So what? You're worried the age difference is a problem? Or just the whole he's got a twig, and it's rustling your jimmies? If he's old enough to drink, he's old enough to fu—_romance_," he backtracked when Sulu shot a glare at him. "Romance, flowers, babies in cribs. White picket fence. And a big gay rainbow flag parked in solidarity right next to ol' red, white, and blue. The American Dream."

"Thanks for the lousy advice, Kirk," Sulu said dryly, then stole Kirk's next bottle of beer before escaping into a large group new arrivals, emboldened by the women eager to wave him over. It was too bad that their perfect gentleman's got a raging one-hundred percent gay hard-on for a former KGB brat. He owed Mitchell fifty bucks.

"Anytime!" Kirk shot back with a cheer and raised his beer in a toast when Sulu shot a glare at him.

He got a few stray moments of peace before another body crashed into him, causing him to whimper and almost keel over from the pain in his arm. What was he, a magnet for drunken men? Not that he could complain, he just wished it was someone other than his buddies doing it.

This time Scotty was the culprit, who plastered himself cheek-to-cheek with Kirk before dragging him off his barstool. His breath made Kirk wrinkle his nose. Scotty smelled like a distillery. "Jim, Jim, Jim…!

"Scotty, Scotty, Scotty…!" Kirk let out a breathless laugh and grateful that his arm wasn't throbbing anymore.

Scotty laughed and straightened Kirk out, making a show to 'dust' him off like a trophy. His accent seemed more thick thanks to the drink. "Ya sho lonely. An' I know a good-lookin' gen'leman like you shouldnae look sho lonely! Sho I want yeh ter meet shomeone…"

"Is that English…?" Kirk squinted his eyes and swiped out for his eleventh beer but missed and tipped it over with his fingertips. He mourned the contents spilling over the polished bar, the liquid gold now wasted. The bartender tossed them a sour frown before shuffling off for a dishrag.

His world tilt-shifted when Scotty lifted Kirk upwards, causing him to stumble, until he found himself face-to-face with Uhura.

He smiled foolishly. "Analyst Uhura…"

She was a feisty dark-skinned woman born and raised in Kenya who once swore in Swahili after he failed picking her up for drinks. An exotic beauty with a statuesque figure, Uhura had brown eyes that sharpened in warning every time he approached. Tall, dark, and dangerous through intelligence: Kirk's ideal creature. She had that in spades. It made him almost shameless in his interactions with her.

The only problem? Both of their attitudes kept them from getting it on. Their interactions couldn't be more like oil and water. Both were obnoxious in the sarcasm department, but while Kirk did it for enjoyment, Uhura was sincere, so miscommunication became inevitable between them. Uhura found Kirk to be a clown. He thought her an uppity bitch.

That didn't stop him from fantasizing about her occasionally. Fantasy sure, but in reality they'd end up strangling each other. Her dislike for him so infamous, she refused to share her first name with him no matter how many times he asked. Kirk found himself unable to stop. She was just so easy to tease, and so easy to set off with a few choice words.

His interactions with Uhura these days measured itself by a tally chart of insults exchanged between them. They've racked up quite a score so far.

She wrinkled her nose at him as per usual for their greeting. "Agent Kirk." If Scotty thought hooking him up with Uhura would cheer him up, it wouldn't. It never worked, drunk or sober. He might be tipsy, but he wasn't blind to disinterest.

"So… what am I doing here?" He swayed in Scotty's grip. "Am I wingman tonight?"

Uhura rolled her eyes and Scotty chuckled. "Yeah, Kirk. Ya get to spend shome time with yer new partner while I give Ms. Uhura a chance ter drink. Would that be alrigh'?"

_Partner?_

"Wha'? Yeah, sure, I don't care…" Kirk was too drunk to object, and he wouldn't have even sober. Scotty could dance the night away with icy Analyst Uhura any day of the week. Kirk's personal interest in her summed up as simple eye-candy and, on occasion, someone to annoy.

Uhura shook her head, as if regretting her next action, and pulled someone from behind an ornate privacy screen. A well-dressed man in a black suit let out a quiet exhale until he was beside her, radiating discomfort now that all eyes focused on him.

Spock Grayson up close and personal was even more stunning than he'd been from across the cafeteria.

The shade of his hair looked unnaturally dark, darker than Uhura's even; styled and gelled back with a complementary set of thick eyebrows striking on such a pale complexion. He was thin, no, slender, but still stood with a coiled strength that broadcasted caution, like a rattlesnake's tail. If someone made a stupid misstep that compromised Spock's safety, he'd easily lash out quick and effective.

How unfair that warning was when those kissable bow-like lips looked so tempting. Aside from the cautious impression, Spock had that typical Middle Eastern flavor to him except for paler skin, clean-shaven face, and a lady friend by his side who's not covered up from head to toe.

_Westernized_, Kirk's thoughts buzzed with curiosity. For someone who hailed from an ultra-orthodox Muslim country, Spock was a testament to everything groups like Al Qaeda despised.

The man locked dark brown eyes with him once more and Kirk froze, finding more expression there than he'd expected. His gaze was inquisitive, almost shy, and foolish with a pretentious confidence. If Spock thought he could hide his emotions from Kirk with a neutral look, he's wrong.

But Kirk knew subtle body language, learned how to read an enemy's soul through dilated pupils, the sweat of their palms, and the way their muscles twitched beneath their skin. Spock wasn't able to hide a single thing from him, a diplomat's son be damned.

Kirk looked him up and down, physical attraction immediate, and maybe it was the liquor but something had him floored by Spock's intoxicating presence. His determination to see everything about Spock in their first real meeting helped sharpen his foggy vision. Even his drunken sway stopped by Spock's passionless stare.

He may have to redefine his idea of 'good-looking' now he's examined Spock. Sudden fantasies of licking a trail up that strong pale throat almost kept him from hearing and responding to the mandatory introductions.

Social niceties mattered little to him at this point so long as he continued to stare at Spock, who decided to no longer acknowledge the flirty smiles sent his way. He focused his own line of sight on a spot somewhere over Kirk's shoulder to avoid him.

"This is Analyst Spock Grayson," Uhura introduced, shooting a look at Kirk as clear as a siren. A blind man could tell that Kirk was going above and beyond the call of duty to flirt with Spock. This time, he wouldn't let her impede his ogling.

Another person approached and Kirk got a flash of blonde curls, but his attention was too much focused on Spock for him to turn or care. Uhura smiled at the boy and gestured, "And this is…"

"Analyst Pavel Chekov, remember me?" Sulu interrupted. He popped out of nowhere to slip into Kirk's space like fucking butter and give the boy his best smile. In Spock's relief, the action impeded Kirk's line of sight.

Kirk snorted, half-annoyed until reality returned now that all he could see the back of Sulu's head. The proverbial clock struck midnight and whatever spell Spock's hot physique had on Kirk dissipated. From behind Sulu, he ducked and sighed, grateful for the interruption.

Office romances should be avoided at all costs. He had almost forgotten his own golden rule.

Spock relaxed his shoulders now that Kirk's 'examination' stopped at the same time Kirk allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. Just what he needed: messing around with one of Komack's men and a rival coworker to boot. Even while drunk he realized that was a monumentally _stupid_ idea.

Chekov beamed. "Oh! Yes, you are Agent Hikaru Sulu? You flipped Officer Hendorff onto his back in ze gym and von me fifty dollers!"

"You beat up Cupcake?" Kirk shot an incredulous look at Sulu, his thoughts diverted. Before Sulu could answer, Mitchell joined the fray and locked himself full against Kirk's back, shoving Sulu aside for a better view. Kirk's knees almost buckled under Mitchell's possessive weight.

"He hates it when you call him that, Jim," Mitchell's smile was playful against Kirk's shoulder before it dimmed into a curious frown.

Spock stiffened now that Mitchell's clinical gaze was on him, determined to find out what made Kirk so stupid and hot for the analyst. Whatever he got out of Spock, he didn't like, because Kirk knew Mitchell's sudden guarded tone all too well. Kirk frowned when the arms around his neck stiffened. Not good.

"Spock, huh?" Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "I heard you got Jim in trouble. He barely got out of Medical for his injuries when you filed the complaint. Not surprising, since you work under that hardass Komack."

The awkward silence was stifling. "Gary..." Kirk warned.

"Just a friendly reminder is all," Mitchell continued. "You see, I'm usually the one who takes care of this guy. Danger follows him like ticks to tits. Now that you got yourself assigned to him, I can't do shit. This Komack's plan? You trying to sabotage him?"

Kirk wasn't the only one who was goddamn drunk.

This time Spock didn't flinch. "That is not your concern," Spock said coldly. "At least, not anymore."

Uhura's jaw dropped in alarm at the same time Scotty had to shove an arm forward to keep Mitchell from slipping between them and advancing.

"Oookay..." Sulu stuffed his hands into his pockets and gave Chekov a sheepish grin. "This is awkward. Sorry about that."

"I think eet's fun!" Chekov chirped. "I am 'oping for some brawls myself. Ve inwented bar brawls in Russia, you see..."

There was going to be only one person injured today if Kirk could help it. He'd rather not see two men he'd be happy to screw leave him out of the mud brawl.

So Kirk snorted in laughter to divert the impending fight and shoved Mitchell off of him, lightening up the party Jim Kirk-style. "This is Agent Gary Mitchell," he introduced with a light slur. "Don't mind him. He's only a sweetheart to me." MItchell shot him a look of irritation for butting in, but that meant Kirk succeeded in his objective.

"Heyyy that'sh not true! He's a shweetheart to good ol' Montgomery Scott! Tha's me…" Scotty piped up, feeling left out, but all of his attention was on Uhura, who gave him a rare amused smile. He then patted Kirk's shoulder in sympathy. "And o' course, last but by far not least…"

"The name's Kirk," he interrupted and reached for Spock's outstretched hand for the obligatory handshake. But instead of a professional greeting, before he realized what he was doing or how it would look, he entangled those long fingers around his own under a strange compulsion.

Spock stiffened at once, brown eyes widening a fraction before Kirk lowered his head to brush his lips against those strong knuckles. Analyst Grayson moved like royalty, and really, Kirk could only oblige in kind. "James Kirk. Leader of Sector Zeitgeist."

"We have a leader?" Mitchell rolled his eyes at Sulu, who grinned and winked at Kirk's antics.

"Excuse me," Kirk corrected with an indulgent smirk in Spock's direction. "I meant _Supreme Dictator_."

"_Mascot_," Sulu corrected.

"The creepy janitor," Mitchell interjected and, just like magic, Kirk turned a tense situation inside out like the social butterfly he was.

"That would imply he cleans his own messes, gents!" Scotty said jovially, which caused the rest of them, excluding Kirk and Spock, to laugh.

_Jesus_, Kirk wondered with irritation, _what was with the Jim Kirk abuse today?_

To everyone's surprise, Spock came to his defense. He withdrew his hand from Kirk's and folded his arms behind his back. "The word 'dictator' implies absolute power and control over a country or populace. If one was truly a dictator, would not control of the press and speech be his first priority once in power?"

"Are you implying that I should execute these loud-mouthed motherfuckers?" Kirk inquired, glad for the subject change. He might have massively fuck-upped with the hand thing. "Because that's a good idea. You're hired, Spock."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Hired?"

"Yeah, you'll be my House Speaker, second-in-command, or whatever position answers directly to the dictator and makes speeches for him," Kirk said with an impish smile and recovered his confidence quick. "I bet you're good at oral… presentation, I mean. Wow, isn't it getting bright in here?" He felt light-headed, most likely from the booze and embarrassment, and had to grip Scotty's shoulder for support lest he fell and busted his head open on the tiled floor from his sudden lack of equilibrium.

Uhura rolled her eyes at the same time as Sulu. Chekov erupted into a fit of snickers. "Smooth," he grinned. "Wery smooth…"

"He is a shmooth shon of a bitch, innit he?" Scotty laughed and thumped Kirk on the shoulder again. "What de yeh shay, Spock? Charmed enough ter hangout with while I treat the lovely Analyst Uhura to a drink? He's 'ouse-trained, I promise!"

Spock didn't seem sure of Kirk at all. His stance was stiff, almost awkward, and his eyes had darted to Uhura for some kind of silent guidance. Maybe he was wondering if it would be a social faux pas to just deck Kirk here and now for the oral comment.

At least what the last few sober cells of Kirk's analytical mind decided before they too perished from the liquor.

**"**Agent Kirk," Spock began with hesitation, his tone clinical and inappropriate for a casual bar setting. "Formalities aside, I hoped to speak with you."

"Oh?" Kirk wondered if maybe he had some actual success getting somewhere with Spock. A lazy smile formed on his face. He wouldn't mind continue talking to Spock about stuff as long as he could keep staring at him. The guy was super fine, with an exotic cherry on top. It's okay to look according to his code, but not touch. He should know, he invented the loophole.

And the way Spock kept himself folded up, he would no doubt appreciate Kirk's self-control on this issue.

Did Kurdish men use the cherry popping euphemism? Did they also believe that seventy-two useless virgins waited for them up in Heaven? It made Kirk's chest bubble with mild drunken humor.

Spock blinked in confusion at Kirk's random smile, then elaborated. "Yes. I have a question about the hard drive in possession of the Springfield PD. If we can speak privately on the matter, I can…"

It was like someone yanked the needle off a record. Kirk's smile fell at the thought of work and he wasn't alone. At the sound of a possible work-related debriefing, every other agent within earshot began high-tailing it away from them and towards the bar.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Chekov stiffen like a child whose hand got caught in the cookie jar. It was immediate when Chekov grabbed Sulu by the tie and dragged him away toward the foosball table before Spock might rope him into a debriefing too. Mitchell lingered for a moment, as if unsure that leaving Kirk with Spock would be a good idea, before deciding to escape while he still had the chance.

Kirk kind of wished he could join them.

"You know," Kirk slurred out with care, though horrified at working under the influence. He had made a big, big mistake. Spock was one of those guys: more interested in work than relaxing like a normal person, "we're off the clock, Analyst Grayson."

Still, he took a somewhat demented pity on Spock, who continued to look like he would rather be elsewhere than in some bar, so he just shrugged in mild defeat and gestured him over to a small booth where it was less crowded and easier to breathe.

It might have been the best move he made all night because Uhura slipped away from Spock and towards the bar. She draped her suit jacket over her arm, so Kirk had complete visual of that lovely lower back being guided by Scotty's hand. It surprised him. He thought someone more sophisticated and elegant would be Uhura's type than a jaunty boorish guy like Scotty.

Scotty owed him. Scotty do. Scotty don't.

_'Scotty doesn't know'_. Kirk chuckled at his own drunken cleverness and hummed the respective song. Spock didn't seem bothered aside from a raised eyebrow. He seemed more curious than accusatory so Kirk continued, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the cool polished wood of the table.

Spock watched him for a moment, looking more relaxed now that there were fewer people surrounding him. He pulled out a tablet from his briefcase. "Agent Kirk, about the data-mining of Arman Faziz's computer tomorrow…"

"Spock…" Kirk moaned, disappointed by the interruption mid-chorus, but it was kind of okay because someone was working an old-fashioned jukebox in the restaurant and picked _Here Comes the Rain Again_ to play. He had to resist singing along. Maybe that beer was stronger than he expected. "I don't think this is the time to talk about work." He'd run out of fingers to count his drinks on and was in no shape to discuss national security with the walking computer. "Plus I'm kinda injured…"

Spock paused and looked up from his tablet, his gaze on Kirk's arm dismissive when he wiggled his fingers at him to prove a point. "If you can go out with your coworkers, then you are not in significant pain."

"Now that's not fair. I'm _drunk_," Kirk countered, the alcohol not doing much to suppress the irritation itching under his skin. Why should he have to explain himself for being off the fucking clock? "I've had a rough day."

"Clearly."

Kirk's brow furrowed and his words grew sharp. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Agent Kirk, your salvage attempts on Faziz's computer had disrupted my data-mining. I could not piece together the locations of the rest of the possible terrorist cell through that source. This has made our mission more difficult to complete," Spock said. His words continued to be curt, yet he couldn't look Kirk in the eye and instead focused on the tablet. The disrespect was slowly pissing Kirk off. "Sergeant Calhoun has also refused to surrender Faziz's equipment without your approval, despite Director Pike's assurances it wasn't necessary."

"Good," Kirk spat out, glad someone thought of his injured ass. "I bet you're damn pissed off about that, aren't you?"

"As a Kurdish citizen, my culture does not stress anger as an outlet."

"But you're half-American, so that's half-bullshit."

Those dark eyes of his alighted with something familiar: irritation. An actual emotion flickered across Spock's handsome features. "Agent Kirk if you are refusing to work with me in the supplemental log of _Operation Gemini_…"

How funny. He had sworn Pike had called it _Operation Screw-A-Lot_. Or was it _Don't-Screw-It-Up_? It had the word screw in it, that's for sure, and Kirk liked the name better than _Ge-mini-dress_, or whatever Spock called it.

"What are you gonna do about it? Tattle on me like Mitchell said?" Kirk snarled, withholding the urge to pull on that nice coiffed hair and kick Spock's immaculate ass. Who the hell was so uppity in a goddamn bar? "I'm not refusing shit. Does this look like a conference room? We're in a bar. _Do bar things_. Work doesn't count."

Spock considered his words, that dark gaze attempting to penetrate Kirk in some strange quest to find something. No, his stare almost resigned, but calculated. Spock was trying to guess Kirk's next move. Because he was a clever son of a bitch, and believed Kirk would be the type to skirt his duties.

Kirk exhaled through his nose, his own gaze imposing. Spock_ would_ think that. Everyone else did. His disciplinary file was on constant blast on the compound. Jim Kirk's reckless, a promiscuous liar with a disregard for rules. That's what he wanted, worked hard to portray. He concocted the ultimate con and his coworkers fell for it.

Spock didn't need to learn anything more than what he saw on Kirk's file, thanks. Especially since he was Komack's grunt and here to make sure Kirk got fired for something stupid. As far as Kirk concerned himself, Spock was an enemy mine, and he had to be careful like Mitchell suggested.

He'd be damned to hell if he lost his job because of a pretty face.

For a moment, it almost seemed like Spock's look softened. Dark eyes moved from Kirk's face to his shoulder and down the sling. With a considered nod, Spock got up and tucked the tablet back into his bag. "Very well. We will continue the matter tomorrow morning. If you will excuse me."

Kirk guessed that meant Spock didn't know shit about bar stuff.

"What the fuck?!" Kirk mouthed to the stuffed moose head from next to the TV, and he wondered if he had earned himself a pink slip for his mouth. "Now just wait one damn minute, Spock!"

He chased Spock out of the bar and almost dropped his coat when Mitchell threw it at him. Ignoring the disapproving glare Uhura gave him, Kirk stumbled out the door like a clumsy ox in a desperate bid to save his job. "Okay, seriously! It's just pillow talk, baby!" he slurred out before he could smack a hand over his mouth.

The infamous Kirk mouthiness bounces back at full force. It's a wonder how his paternal line ever secured spouses.

Spock stopped long enough to shoot a look of utter disbelief over his shoulder.

Ken was outside smoking and raising his palms up in confusion, but Kirk ignored him in favor of Spock, who clicked the key fob to a _2014 Mercedes-Benz CLA250_. Meanwhile, Kirk's beat up _2002 Dodge Pickup_ was sitting in the underground CIA lot, looking more like a junk heap than a practical method of transport. Kirk couldn't hate him any more than he did right now.

He glared at the sleek black car and at Spock, who narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"Agent Kirk, it would be best for you to return to your coworkers."

"Oh fuck you," Kirk shot back and hobbled to the passenger side. "Fuck you and your ineptitude at being a date. Fine. I can play. You want to work? Let's work, baby. Get me some coffee and _choo-choo mother fucker_, I'll fucking work."

"You have made it very clear—"

"Just shut up and start the car!" The world spun and Kirk almost thought Spock would refuse and leave him standing on the parking lot, now without a job or a scrap of dignity left.

But then the passenger door wirelessly clicked, and he slid into expensive leather seating with the heater blasting in his face before Spock could stop him. The sudden extreme change in degrees made him nauseous. "Wow… why so hot…?"

Spock joined him in the driver's side and lowered the temperature. "Where do you live, Agent Kirk?"

"Don't do that," Kirk growled and surprised himself by remembering to put his seatbelt on. "I said I would work, didn't I?"

"You are in no condition to work, nor are you eligible to apply for the graveyard shift tonight," Spock said, careful of avoiding Kirk's drunken temper. "It was an error on my part to ask this of you. You are inebriated."

Kirk shrugged, ignoring the swirling of craft beer and anger in his gut. "My car's back at the compound, so I'll get stranded at home anyways."

He wasn't sure how long they just sat there in the expensive Mercedes. Five seconds? Five minutes? Kirk faded in and out of consciousness because the interior smelled wonderful. The air was potent with a minty spice mixed with the aroma of authentic leather from the seating. He took a deep inhale, letting the scent quiet his nauseous stomach.

The fragrance lulled him into a near-catatonic state, which was better than vomiting. Through the haze, he thought he felt the car move, but he had already passed out and so chalked it up as a dream.

Sometimes when stress overwhelmed him, his idle dreams morphed into a twisted world where his worst nightmares occurred. Add a good wash of booze and his mind became a breeding ground of insecurity and fear of losing everything.

Kirk panicked in his seat the moment the drifted into REM sleep, and flung out with clumsy, inebriated grasps until he found a cool surface to twist his fingers around and give him stability, a soft palm to slide against his own.

The ghost hand tugged, attempted to pull away, but Kirk was firm and desperate. He was dreaming of the entire Board of Directors surrounding him, accusing him of being a constant fuck up, and ordering him to turn in his badge and sidearm. Pike was standing amongst them with disappointment in his eyes.

He had always known he would fuck up eventually and end up alone again.

Kirk whimpered and before he could just give up and pull his fingers away in defeat to unhook his badge, the reluctant hand came back and intertwined their fingers once more.

No matter how much the hazy image of Komack spat at him to hand over his gear, he could not, not with his bandaged arm and someone holding the other hand down.

His nightmares faded until they were nothing. A blissful state of peace washed over him, like someone was smoothing out the wrinkles in his mind until the fear disappeared alongside the nightmares.

Then, almost tentative, the hand around his brushed a thumb over one of his knuckles, and a thrum of unexpected pleasure hit him hard. His nerves flared and warmth shot up from the fingers up his arm until his entire spine lit up with shivers. Kirk feared what that meant, had experienced this kind of excitement once in his life from just a simple goddamn touch, and crashed hard when the infatuation came apart.

He tugged his hand, desperate for a way out. Not again. He couldn't do again. The hand around his was firm and Kirk couldn't muster enough coordination to outmaneuver it. His fingers started to shake until he let out a breathless laugh and was out a second time.

Bones was a dead man. What the fuck did he give him? _Cocaine?_ He didn't remember much else after that thought.

Kirk felt so lax now it was hard to comprehend the waking world, but someone must have picked him up for the night. That explained why someone's fingers were now disentangling from his to slide up his arm and across his throat as gentle as Mitchell would. But the touch didn't seem as coarse like Mitchell's. It couldn't be him.

He moaned in pleasure from the little electric sensations flickering just beneath his skin and pressed his free hand against the hard knuckles of his new partner's.

Did he get picked up by someone else this time? Kirk prayed for a good-looking one before he let his eyes flutter open and begged to the beer gods it wasn't _Cupcake_ again. He didn't want to vomit again. Good beer shouldn't be regurgitated.

"Hey…" he drawled in confusion. Even his goddamn vision was blurry. "Did Spock toss me out of his car?" That's right. He tried to stop Spock, failed, and got picked up by some random guy from the bar.

The hand against his shoulder stilled so Kirk took it as an affirmative. He snorted, too drunk to care about national security. "God I hope he's not gonna report me. Komack's an ass and… he's been riding on mine since forever. Do you think Spock's gonna tell Pike I'm incompetent? Mitchell's right. I have to stop him…somehow."

"I do not…" the voice began, but Kirk laughed and crawled out of the car. He felt strange and hyper-aware of his surroundings and all this empty space around him now he wasn't near the other man. When the driver came around to his side, he stumbled into strong arms and snickered at his clumsiness. It was like something out of a shitty romance novel.

God, he hoped that meant he was getting laid.

Not-Spock smelled nice. Like crisp aftershave and something else, like the nice car. Kirk pressed closer and ran his uninjured hand up that unwrinkled dress shirt, cursing the fashion designer who decided it was necessary to stuff the ends of shirts into pants. It didn't matter because he could still feel cool skin through the thin shirt, but he would have preferred direct contact.

Kirk found himself at home at last, bliss and comfortable in someone else's space. It's been almost five years since he'd experienced that. Loneliness can be a bitch.

"You smell nice," he murmured and nuzzled his mouth snug against the side of the man's neck.

"Agent Kirk," Spock said, his words thick and hesitant. "Please follow me to the elevator."

Kirk frowned at the familiar voice, but decided the booze was fucking with his memory while he ended up dragged through the underground garage and into a steel elevator. Spock wouldn't bring him home; Spock couldn't stand him. Smiling in pure indulgence, he pushed Not-Spock against the doors once they closed and pressed his mouth hungrily against Not-Spock's jaw this time, ready to bleed right into him and just stay there. He belonged there.

Spock stiffened at Kirk's boldness. Kirk felt Spock's hands tremble as he tried to pry him off as gentle as possible, but Kirk wouldn't let him.

It hit him as clear as day once two of his brain cells rubbed themselves together on accident. The voice, the scent, the body.

This guy was _Spock_, and he was ignoring the bells clanging a desperate warning in the back of his head. The beer and atmosphere had dulled everything, even his survival instinct. Spock should easily beat the shit out of him in his current state and had yet to do so. Kirk was no stranger to mutual attraction.

So why wasn't he kicking his ass? Did gay, bi, whatever Iranian men even exist? It seemed a contradiction, almost unfeasible. Kirk stopped thinking entirely because it was killing his mood.

Spock jumped when Kirk defiantly nipped at his ear, grip loosening just like he wanted. Unable to withstand the sensations any longer, Spock placed two fingers with surprising care against Kirk's chin as if to deter him. Then, in a moment of weakness, he slowly drew them up against Kirk's lips before returning them to Kirk's cheek and pushing his head away.

If Kirk had been in his right mind, without alcohol or the painkillers muddling everything, he would have stopped everything and apologized. Instead, he scooped Spock's hand up to his mouth and met Spock's dark gaze as he flicked his tongue over the other analyst's fingers.

A smug jolt of pleasure settled in his churning stomach when Spock jumped like a live wire and pulled away.

"You licked me," Spock accused, looking at his hand and then back at Kirk, who smiled with satisfaction at his displeasure. Kirk didn't respond except to lick his lips, his grin positively filthy. Spock continued to stare, his nose wrinkling, and uncomprehending of the situation he was in. "That's _disgusting_."

Nerd.

"Then give me something_ nicer_ to lick on. Unless you still believe in cooties," Kirk goaded and pressed his damp mouth against Spock's before the other could react.

Spock murmured something dry and woeful against Kirk's mouth, words that sounded foreign. But Kirk knew what exasperation with a touch of amusement sounded like, no matter how faint it was. He let out a soft breath of laughter before encouraging Spock to take part with a gentle trace of fingers down his jaw.

It didn't work. Spock was determined not to deepen the rather bland pressing of lips, but it looked like he was reconsidering the offer. His fingers ghosted against the area where Kirk's neck met shoulder, squeezing and then not with conflicted consideration.

Kirk purred in encouragement when Spock's fingers slipped upwards once more, vulnerable to his advances. He brushed the corner of Kirk's bottom lip and stiffened in reaction when Kirk sighed in pleasure.

The guy must be a prude or a closeted freak, Kirk decided, because he was_ still_ putting up a fight. He pulled back a fraction, making note of those bow-like lips that refused to open and yield, and gave those dark eyes his best sultry smile before leaning forward and playfully lick at the corner of Spock's mouth. "Don't want to play?" he asked hoarsely, half-disappointed, half-aroused.

There was a beat of consideration again before Spock swallowed hard and shook his head. Undeterred, Kirk pressed himself against him once more, this time giving Spock a more physical demonstration of his attraction.

Spock's lips parted with surprise and his dark eyes narrowed, pupils dilating against his judgment. He almost said something, but the elevator stopped, causing Kirk to bounce on his heels and Spock to hiss when his erection accidentally rubbed against his thigh. Before the doors even opened, Spock shoved Kirk back and centered himself, drawing his cool, impassioned aura around him like the armor it was.

Kirk moaned in frustration when he collided with the side of the elevator and decided that he never had a harder time trying to get to first base with someone. Well, okay, Janine Saunders in middle school was worse, but they had metal retainers. To be driven by her irate father down to the orthodontist while connected had been the most humiliating experience of his life, bar none.

A woman in her mid-60s was instead staring at the far wall of the elevator, too tired to comprehend or question why Spock looked rumpled with his collar turned up and his shirt unbuttoned. Kirk wasn't any better. It looked like he had just gotten molested by a bear thanks to his sling.

With a careful nod in greeting to his fellow tenant, Spock grabbed Kirk by the wrist and dragged him into the hallway. The first thing Kirk noticed was the floor tiled with tessellated marble and polished so well he could see his reflection in it.

And really, the dragging was unnecessary. Kirk was eager enough to slip back into Spock's cool side and follow him down the hall, whispering sweet drunk nothings into his ear. Spock ears turned a healthy shade of pink when Kirk deviated between tasteful words of desire to the borderline obscene of where he wanted to stick his tongue in the next three minutes. If that didn't work? Kirk had more ideas if he got himself sober.

Then again, if he _wasn't_ drunk, he was sure he'd have ended this. Something about the golden rule...

You know what, sobriety was overrated.

Despite Spock's urging for him to detach himself, Kirk fixated himself flush against Spock's back, exploring and rubbing through Spock's shirt with his fingers and cheek. He hummed with so much delight, even Spock found himself unable to do anything but stop and allow Kirk to treat him like a heated blanket until he could turn the key and get them through the door.

"Please try to get a hold of yourself, Agent Kirk," Spock said, barely a whisper, because Kirk had returned to nibbling on his ear and exploring Spock's sides and hips with inquisitive fingers.

_So virginal_, Kirk decided. He continued his careful exploration of Spock's hips and ass, boldly going where no man had gone before, and squeezed. Spock tried to slip away from his touch to close the door, but Kirk followed, determined to get a piece of the action while he was still drunk enough to think it was a good idea to molest his new work partner.

"I'd rather let _you_ get a hold of myself," Kirk managed to get one final lick up the side of Spock's flushed throat until Spock had enough and propelled him into the nearest couch. "No bed?" he whined in mid-bounce on the cushions. The drink told him to stretch himself across the seating to entice Spock instead, letting his legs part to give Spock a look at his arousal, a sneak preview of possible good things to come.

"That is not wise," Spock answered, his gaze flickering over Kirk's obscene pose. With a flare of his nostrils, Spock moved away from temptation and into the safety of personal space. "You will stay here until tomorrow. By then I hope you are sober enough to work."

"You sound like Analyst Grayson," Kirk noted with a groan. "I don't like him, but I like _you_."

Spock dismissed his drunken ramblings and retreated to his bedroom, making it a point to close his door to deter Kirk from following. "Indeed."

The room was warm, and Kirk drifted in a fog of beer-induced relaxation. When he took stock of his surroundings, he found himself on a stylish comfortable couch inside a stereotypical yuppie apartment. It was artsy, the kind that country boys like Kirk would envision while laying on a barren field and dreaming of skyscrapers and art galleries instead of farms and rundown churches.

_'You won't be saved from your total depravity, Jim,'_ was the old family pastor's parting words. _'You take pride in greed and lust. It will be your undoing, young man, mark my words. If you think moving to the city will keep you from God's watchful gaze, you are mistaken.'_

God must be a perverted son of a bitch for peeping in on Kirk's shenanigans. He snorted loudly and his thoughts drifted from unattractive old codgers back to the appealing decor before it still killed his hard-on. The colors were muted, blacks and greys with marble half-walls and glass paneling and some kind of fluttering silky fabric draped around the windows that served less as curtains than as decorative scarves.

Either Spock was obscenely gay, or someone went _Queer Eye_ on his decor. Kirk still wasn't sure which one was right.

He shifted a bit and had to bite back a low moan once he relaxed against the couch's upholstery. It was sinful to his exposed skin and probably cost more than his year's salary. There were pieces of tasteful modern art placed around the area, polished wooden floors that reflected like the hallway floors, and lighting so dim that Kirk almost mistook the lamps for candles at first.

There wasn't a TV_ anywhere_. Instead, a fake fireplace that doubled as a heater was the main centerpiece for the couch. It poured out heat like a real one, which probably accounted for how drowsy Kirk was getting.

He tilted his head over the armrest to find more large windows that overlooked some residential buildings and the freeway, translucent from the silky material of the drapes covering them. To his right was a spotless kitchen that looked like something celebrity chefs like Gordon Ramsay would use, complete with a small marble island with chairs and silvery pots and pans hanging from a rack installed above it.

Kirk would have enjoyed getting down and dirty in a place like this if the host wasn't so prudish. No, he supposed it wouldn't be very tasteful. Making sweet cheap love, maybe? This was a chick's wet dream right here.

"God, your place is fucking incredible," Kirk sighed loudly, jealous that this guy had a better living space than an actual espionage spy like himself. "I bet you get laid like hell bringing people up here. Me? My dates would probably think I was getting _food stamps_ if I brought them home."

"Bringing such people to your personal quarters would be illogical, as their judgmental attitudes mark them as inappropriate partners," Spock's voice came through the door, loud enough for Kirk to hear. There was shuffling around in the bedroom. Spock was searching for something. "Perhaps if you are looking for something more tangible than a one-night stand, you will consider a permanent mate. One that would not judge your financial security at a shallow glance."

"Oh, but where would be the fun in that? The more shallow they are, the less chance of them staying before breakfast." Kirk chuckled in his expense and relaxed on the couch, kicking his shoes up on the marble coffee table. He focused on the modern fireplace, the mantle of which held two photos. One of an aged woman that was most definitely not a girlfriend. Spock's mother perhaps unless he was into older chicks.

The other frame was Uhura and Spock. Kirk grinned with amusement. Spock brought the wrong person home. Uhura was probably heading back to Scotty's shitty apartment right at this moment, lucky bastard.

"Not many agents in my line of work have normal relationships, you know? You can get away with that 'cuz you're an analyst. It's less dangerous," he answered Spock's door with a hesitant grin. "I lie, cheat, steal… _murder_. Sometimes I gotta sleep with the right people to get information. Sometimes I get a few close calls that can end my life. It's a messy job. Can you imagine waking up to that kind of person every morning?"

There was a moment of silence.

"I did not expect an insightful response." Spock emerged from his room carrying a pair of sweatpants and a shirt for Kirk to use. Spock scrutinized him in a way that reminded Kirk of someone trying to figure out a Rubik's cube before tossing the clothing in Kirk's direction. "The guest bathroom is to your right." He ignored Kirk's boyish wink and retreated into his bedroom. The click of his door suggested a lock turning.

The clothes smelled fresh with a hint of that spice Kirk enjoyed during the car ride. There were no logos or distinctive marks that Kirk could analyze to learn about Spock. These were just ordinary off-brand pajamas, made soft with use.

Analysis complete. No unique feature of the clothing except that it was black. Yup, case solved. He supposed the goth subculture never really went out of style for Spock. Kirk swayed and decided thinking while still drunk was bad. Instead he shrugged off half his coat and tugged at his tie.

This would be much easier if he'd had someone else to divest him of his clothes, preferably for the point of sexy times. The tie quickly became sentient from the drink and tried to strangle him as soon as his fingers tangled into the knot. He couldn't properly combat it with one of his arms out of commission.

Looks like another dangerous mission for the great James T. Kirk.

Time must have flown because Spock emerged from the room to frown at his shitty progress.

"I've come to check on you," Spock began. He was in his own sleepwear, black as well, but Kirk wasn't in the mood to ogle seeing as he was still in bitter combat with his tie. "Checking on inebriated people is recommended in case of drowning."

"Drowning?" Kirk asked with a hoarse throat, giving up on the damn tie.

"Should you expel your intoxication, you may asphyxiate on your own vomit," Spock clarified. "I suggest you raise yourself while resting so it does not happen."

It was the most unsexy thing Kirk had ever heard in his entire life. "I'm starting to realize you don't get laid much bringing people up here."

"An astute observation." Inhaling what almost sounded like a sigh, Spock sat down beside Kirk and made quick work of the tie. How the hell did he do that?

Kirk drew in a deep breath with his newly-freed neck. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Spock replied and even helped Kirk out of his button-down, noting the sling responsible for Kirk's troubles in the first place. He diligently unhooked the harness and guided the button-down and undershirt past the cast.

Once Kirk was blissfully free of both, Spock tugged the clean black shirt over, careful to work the fabric over the cast once more. "I was hoping to bring you home to talk about the case. You are right. Conversing in the bar would have been a breach of national security."

"I think... you were just intimidated by Gary," Kirk slurred. "He's hot when he gets all angry, don't you agree?"

"He is not my type."

Kirk leaned forward like he was imparting a very classified secret. "He's _my_ type. Tall, dark, handsome, and intelligent as fuck. What sucks is that he's as straight as the Space Needle. I live a tragic life."

"I weep for your plight," Spock said dryly. "You prefer men?"

"Fucking _bi_, dude. Does no one mention Ruth or Carol around the water cooler or something? You sleep with one guy from the office and all of a sudden it invalidates—hey—" Kirk began and gripped one of Spock's wrists. It was thin and his fingers could have closed around it, but what was important was how cool the skin was against the rather stuffy temperature of the room. "I can do this."

"You are inebriated and injured," Spock stressed, watching a flicker of worry pass by those blue eyes before he returned to hooking the harness back on. "You cannot optimize your motor control in this state."

"You're delaying me on purpose," Kirk mumbled. His words became frantic once it dawned on him. "You can't stop me from working… don't wanna get fired…"

Spock's dark eyes glittered, seeming alight with clear understanding. Before Kirk could question it, Spock shook his head and helped Kirk back onto the couch. "You will not get fired."

Kirk frowned in disbelief. "Why should I believe you?"

"The circumstances of tonight," Spock began carefully, then closed his eyes and reworded. "To ignore this and file a report for off-duty interactions would be illogical. It would also encourage disharmony in the work environment. You are abrasive and lax with rules, but you are not a bad person. Otherwise, you would not have many powerful agents willing to stand with you."

The words sunk in like a hot knife to butter and Kirk's rising panic dissipated, bringing back the calm he'd felt in the car. He sighed in relief and bowed his head. "I just can't lose my job, not like this," he murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Might be fucking funny to you, but it's all I have. And Komack… I wasn't trying to sabotage the mission. I really didn't."

"I am aware now." A cool hand slipped up his chest and moved upwards all nice and slow until it cupped the juncture between his neck and shoulder, not unlike what he'd done in the elevator. It reminded him of the way Mitchell would comfort him, but this was different. Completely different.

His pulse quickened when Spock's thumb idly brushed the bump of his Adam's apple and upwards along the line of his jugular. Just a simple touch sharpened his senses and got his blood rushing. It would have scared him shitless if he had been sober.

"You will not lose your job," Spock reaffirmed and this time the words took root. Spock's touch seemed to carve his words into Kirk's consciousness directly, so he could only nod before a shiver of pleasure hit him hard.

"I'll take your word for it," Kirk croaked, then gave Spock a shaky smile when Spock pulled away. "Fucking hell, I think I might actually like you. And I shouldn't."

"Oh?"

Kirk closed his eyes and grinned. "You're an enemy. Can't trust Komack's agent."

"We are on the same side," Spock stressed with hesitation and then his eyes went suddenly downcast. Shame reflected in his fingers, which flexed in discomfort.

Kirk, feeling sobriety trickle in. This had nothing to do with Komack. "Are you sure?" When Spock nodded, Kirk gave him a serious look. "Think we could be friends then?"

There was a slight twitch in the corners of Spock's lips. "I will take it under consideration when you are more sober and less… tactile."

"That's fair." He hiccoughed and before he could curse or even try to get up, vomited over the arm of the couch.

First impressions were a bitch.


	3. 003

**A/N:** Sorry for the long hiatus!

**Chapter 003**

When he woke up feeling like shit, he could almost believe he'd gone back in time to his days of crashing in Ben's apartment. He hadn't been this hung-over in years.

Ben Finney had found God, but before that he'd been a fervent worshipper at the sanctuary between Kirk's legs. Half the things they'd gotten into had made Kirk want to praise the heavens. Ben's chanting of his name, thick and breathless, was usually loud enough it could have served as a call to communion for their unfortunate neighbors; paper-thin apartment walls and everything.

But their fling had been years ago. Kirk had decided not hold a grudge over Ben for leaving him. He'd gone off in search of a godly life and found the heteronormativity he craved so badly, marrying a woman he liked well enough but hardly put out for. And even after they had parted ways for different sectors, they'd kept in touch as friends; hell, Ben had even named his _kid_ after him.

For better or worse, Ben had chosen his life. He'd tried to teach Kirk a lesson about fate after their breakup, but unfortunately, the only thing Kirk had gotten out of Ben's fumbled explanations was sacrilegious anger at God for taking another person Kirk loved. He could never find the faith Ben had.

Still, he had to admit, Jamie Finney was absolutely adorable. He even had pictures and pretended that she was his, which wasn't too far off the mark considering how much he tried to be involved in her life.

The breakup and subsequent rebound of Ben's first serious relationship had produced a spitfire three-year-old who hated socks and got everything she wanted by widening her big brown eyes and tossing her thick blond curls. Ben had been positive she'd inherited her attitude from Jim and Jim alone. Fatherhood suited Ben in how wild partying never had. But man, did they have some _wild_ parties.

That was why, when Kirk woke up on a very nice couch that definitely wasn't his and his bloodshot blue eyes latched onto thin legs and narrow hips just begging to be held, for one confusing moment, he had thought it was Ben.

The reality of his situation came crashing down as Kirk found his breath stolen by the vacuum of Spock's superbly judgmental, dark gaze. They bore no resemblance to his old flame's serene green eyes. Wonderful.

There wasn't anything worse than waking up in a coworker's apartment, especially one you barely even knew. Even worse, James was fuzzy on the details of the previous night and had no idea what to fucking do now. He could guess from Spock's glare that sex had not happened, sooo... Spock just… took him to his place and let him sleep the hangover off? Or, at least tried to. That was beyond strange.

They weren't friends. Hell, they couldn't even get on as mutual acquaintances. Something must have happened during Kirk's drunken exploration beyond Mackenzie's parking lot that warranted the mixed signals. What the hell was he was doing in Spock's apartment in the first place?

Spock could have simply not known what to do and just picked Kirk up like some kind of stray puppy. That was the best scenario Kirk could come up withthrough his pounding headache, and just as he thought of it, his intestines took him on a roller coaster ride with lots of loops and corkscrews.

When Kirk tossed the tastefully patterned duvet aside to double over in pain and groan, Spock paused in the midst of knotting his tie and assessed him from a safe distance. Oh God, had he puked on Spock? He thought he might have. Even better day. He clutched his stomach and tried desperately to hold in the bit of bile left in his stomach. Beautiful. Great first impression.

"You seem to experience a 'hangover'," Spock said, sounding like he was assessing an experiment that had produced an unexpected result. "Fascinating."

"They don't have hangovers in Kurdistan?" Kirk asked miserably, his voice sounding as if he'd swallowed a belt sander while it was on. Ugh.

"Perhaps," Spock conceded. His dark eyes glittered in a way that implied Kurdish alcoholics handled their liquor much more gracefully than silly Americans.

Kirk could only stare in bewilderment, wondering what the fuck, how the fuck, and why the fuck, before a wave of nausea hit him at the same time as his brain horse-kicked his skull. He scrambled off the couch to find the bathroom and ended up spending the better part of an hour getting more acquainted with Spock's toilet than with its owner.

After that embarrassing display, Kirk had to swallow his pride and apologize for the necessity of Spock's forced hospitality. Apparently he had vomited on one of Spock's treasured antique vases. Well, it was better than vomiting on Spock, he supposed. Still.

Spock seemed especially salty about that, but still offered Kirk some water and aspirin like a champ to ease the symptoms before heading to work.

And, as if to rub salt in the wound, Spock had been to and from the dry cleaner's before Kirk had even opened his bloodshot eyes. He'd made sure Kirk's suit was ready to go, just so Jim didn't have to worry about failing to meet the dress code. Spock seemed to be trying to piss him off by being wonderfully perfect and smug about it. How… _FBI_ like.

To make the situation even worse, Spock stopped for _coffee_ on the way to work. And _paid_. And it was all wrong to Jim because he was from the American "James Bond" Division, and he was the one supposed to act like the suave alpha dog and buy coffee for the cute tech. _Caffè Americano_, shaken not stirred!

In the Starbucks restroom, he made a note to self to be sure to dodge his next psychological evaluation before continuing to wash the humiliation off of his face, and bemoaned fate's shitty relationship with him.

There was a stuffy accountant sending him odd glances now and then. When Kirk turned to glare at him, he zipped up and left the bathroom without going near the sinks. "Ho-kay…" Kirk murmured, finally looking at himself in the mirror to see what had freaked out the guy.

If he were honest with himself, he didn't look his best. There were faint traces of red around his eyes, which made their ice blue color stand out even more. Though they were slowly fading to gray the more he continued to age, his eye color was still one of the main features of James Kirk that people complimented.

His once bright blond hair had darkened with sun and age, but a few lighter roots stubbornly refused to surrender. The result was a rather striking mix of warm colors. At least he hadn't turned completely gray. _Yet._

Getting old and ending up looking like Pike kind of horrified him. Kirk wanted to remain youthful, virile, and desirable forever. So did everyone else. Age was a great equalizer.

He would be thirty going on three hundred if he continued abusing himself like this.

Wincing at the stubble growing along his jaw, he dashed water over his face and hair once more and tried styling it with his fingers, if only so he didn't look like a hobo standing next to Spock. The only way it would part was to one side and the resemblance he suddenly held to Pike was not welcome.

Kirk gave up and returned from the restroom to find Spock waiting with hot black coffee, spiked with probably too much sugar, but none of that hippie soy milk shot shit. Spock's dark hair was perfectly styled and his smooth, pale face complemented his impeccable suit. If some people were taking glances at Jim's rough-and-tumble style, a lot more were stopping to stare blatantly at Spock. A few sleepy blinks later, after they'd probably tried to place him as some celebrity, they'd continue their morose pre-caffeine zombie-like shuffling to whatever undoubtedly mind-numbing jobs they held.

They had reason to stare. Kirk kept being reminded that despite his irritation with the other agent, Spock was genuinely gorgeous. Hot. The cat's pajamas. Kirk seemed to have suddenly ended up in a fifties drama featuring the embodiment of the white collar worker: immaculate, hard-working, and too fucking perfect. The thought made his blood boil. It affected him in ways he hadn't felt since those horrible hormonal high school years.

But Spock was more than just that. He was a Westernized, perfectly-dressed Kurdish man willingly holding Starbucks coffee cups. That was kind of hot in a self-deluding hail-to-almighty America kind of way. It wasn't politically correct, but then again, Kirk wasn't running for the presidency so who gave a shit?

When Spock opened his mouth, the fantasy collapsed. "Are you in full control of your mental faculties, Agent Kirk?" That made Kirk all-too-aware of how foreign Spock truly was. Mental faculties? Who said that outside of an _encyclopedia_?

Spock's intonation did not contain a trace of colloquialism, either, Jim realized. Most everyone had some quirk to their speech; hell, Gary was a blue-blooded American and even he took liberties with his mechanics at times. And people like Scotty, whose first language wasn't English and his thick accent could be heard in their speech patterns. Spock sounded exactly like a natural-language robot, cold and neutral.

He wondered if Spock sounded different when he spoke Kurdish. Did he have a peculiar inflection? Did that deep voice roll his R's or purr out inside jokes only the locals could understand?

Thoughts like this served to fuel Kirk's kind-of-no-way attraction to Spock if only because of the exotic and forbidden element to them.

Maybe he was more hungover than he'd thought.

But now Spock was staring at him and waiting for a response, so Jim took the higher ground and politely accepted the offered drink without lip. Unless Spock had some kind of magical telepathy, he should be safe from being fired thanks to his dirty mind. "I'm good, Spock. Thanks."

"You are welcome, Agent Kirk."

"Look," Kirk began as soon as they shut the car doors. "I didn't… do anything stupid to you last night, did I? Because if I did, I apologize."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him, halfway through putting his seatbelt on. "Please elaborate on your definition of 'anything stupid.'"

If Spock didn't sound so curious, Kirk would have been sure that was a veiled insult. "You know… fooled around. Got touchy. Maybe you didn't like it?"

"Ah, I see," Spock answered in a thoughtful tone and turned on the engine. "So it is not typical for you to be excessively libidinous?"

Kirk sputtered. "Excessively what…?!" There was no deity in the galaxy that could help him now if he'd molested the CIA's golden boy. His old pastor would be disappointed. Or pissed off. Or horrified. How would you even confess to an old Calvinist that you molested a male, probably _Muslim_, spy? There weren't enough Hail Marys in the universe.

"Libidinous," Spock confirmed, his tone serene, but his eyes glimmered with something akin to smugness. "I am certain you understand the meaning of the word, and that your shock is due to alcohol-related amnesia. You seemed to find my neck to be an object of fascination during our interactions. And, I confess, I found your ministrations... excessive."

Kirk shivered despite himself, and suddenly found his voice weak once again. "You're lying."

"It is dishonorable to lie," Spock replied matter-of-factly. "If you do not yet believe the validity of my claims, I will elaborate further. For example, you have a tendency to use aggressive sexual wordplay and seemed greatly fixated on oral stimulation..."

Flinching, Kirk groaned in embarrassment and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Goddammit, Spock..."

"You also seemed to fetishize my posterior. You seized it six times."

Kirk slid further down his seat in defeat, hand cupping his face to hide the burning in his cheeks. "Shit, Spock. That was inappropriate."

"Agreed."

"Why didn't you just kick my ass and leave me in a gutter somewhere?" Weren't guys like him supposed to lynch people like Kirk for male-on-male frisking? He was sure he wouldn't have gotten away with it wherever Spock was originally from. Stoning came to mind.

Spock considered his comment, eyes fixed on the road. "As you are my coworker and now partner on this case, I felt it would be logical to let your inebriation run its course."

"Fuck's sake, Spock," Kirk groaned, clenching the sides of his seat with white knuckles. "That's sexual misconduct, harassment even! You've got every right to put me on file for that. Hell, you could have even had me arrested for it."

"Fascinating," Spock said dryly. "I had not expected you to take full responsibility for your actions."

"Get in line," Kirk replied bitterly, downright horrified and angry at himself for going too far. "Where I come from, if a man fucks up, he has to own up. What I did was inexcusable, and I apologize, Spock. I'm sorry."

He felt even more sick than ever, his stomach back on the roller coaster with the speed turned up. This had been a major fuck up, and not even Pike could save him now. He wouldn't deserve it even if Pike _had_ the power.

Jim sat in the expensive car and internally curled into himself with misery. He'd have to clear out his desk and give up his badge. Hell, he might even end up on a sex offender list or in jail. His life was officially _over_.

Spock pulled to a stop at a red light and turned to look at Jim with something akin to pity in his eyes. Kirk supposed he cut a particularly pathetic figure, dull eyes and slouch and all. "I am well-versed in self-defense and four different kinds of martial arts, including an intermediate course in MMA," he began.

Kirk met his eyes but found himself unable to process what Spock was going on about, seeing as he was envisioning his life as some kind of registered sex offender working at McDonalds. Not that McDonald's would hire him since kids went there. He'd be lucky to end up at a Wal-Mart. "That's nice," he said bitterly.

Spock closed his eyes in a way that made him look like he was sighing, even though his breath didn't change. "If I believed the contact unwelcome or threatening to my wellbeing, I could have easily subdued you before it went too far. Especially considering your intoxication."

The rollercoaster in Jim's gut seemed to slow down. He unconsciously licked his lips. "I didn't…?"

Spock seemed to understand and tilted his head. "No, you did not. The expression I was trying to convey for your benefit is compassion. Your actions were inappropriate, but not hostile. After we were securely in my apartment, you kept your hands to yourself and did not pursue me further."

Kirk let out a sigh he didn't realize he was holding. "That's a relief. A big one."

"I'm sure it is," Spock said stiffly, and much to Kirk's puzzlement, he seemed annoyed with Kirk's answer. "As for apologizing, it is unnecessary. We both made mistakes last night. It would be appropriate to call it even."

The light turned green and, before Kirk could question him, Spock had stepped on the gas harder than necessary, causing Kirk to jerk back into his seat.

"Ah… wait, did we mutually fondle or something?" Kirk asked with mild disbelief. "Because if you took some kind of advantage of me last night, we can call it even. I won't get you in trouble for it. Hell, I think the only thing I regret is not remembering anything."

Spock gripped the steering wheel hard, his teeth audibly clicking as his jaw clenched. "I do not think that it is wise to speak of last night. We both overreached ourselves."

"Ah…" Kirk understood. "Yeah, I guess that was the second thing floating in my head. You aren't… I mean… we're both guys and I tried to mess around with you. You're kind of more considerate than I expected given… you know."

"Perhaps it is due to my peculiar upbringing," Spock murmured, shifting uncomfortably. "I am a child of two worlds, of Iraq and the USA. Like my father, I must be neutral and respectful to both cultures to avoid misunderstandings. Regardless of my first culture's aversion to your behavior, filing a report would be inappropriate as your actions did not constitute a form of sexual harassment."

Kirk nodded, knowing better than to look this gift horse in the mouth. "I'll respect your diplomacy, then. I'm just glad we don't have to stop by a drugstore to pick up Plan B. Nothing more embarrassing than an unwanted pregnancy."

Spock's lips twitched at his words. "You possess a strange sense of humor, Agent Kirk."

"Kirk's fine," he answered nonchalantly. "Or Jim, I don't care. Is Grayson your mother's last name, or…?"

"A general dossier about myself is available on the low-clearance database if you are genuinely interested," Spock dismissed, before taking a sip of his coffee and setting it down. Jim felt something akin to déjà vu, seeing Spock's hand rest on the gearshift. He couldn't put his finger on why it seemed familiar.

Shaking his head, Kirk snorted and returned to his drink. "It'd be much easier if you'd just tell me. Unless if this is your way of getting back at me for last night?"

"Petty vengeance is beneath the Kurdish people."

"Ah, so you do it half the time?" Kirk wiggled his eyebrows when Spock shot a withering look at him. When he didn't respond, Jim decided he'd won this round and moved to turn on the radio. There were no presets, leaving him with no indication what kind of music Spock liked.

He settled on his favorite classic rock station after a moment of fiddling, sat back and watched the muscles in Spock's jaw lock again. Mild amusement bubbled in Kirk's stomach by the driver's silent protestation. "Not enough drums and tambourines in American pop music, Analyst Grayson?"

"I prefer my commute silent to maximize my concentration on the road," Spock replied dryly.

Kirk was sure that was Spock's pretentious way of telling him to shut the fuck up.

* * *

When Kirk cleared out his desk, he couldn't help but remember the worries he'd had in Spock's car just that morning. This move may have only been temporary, but it still stung. His job was hanging by a thread.

Sulu was already there to watch his walk of shame. Unlike Kirk, he was good at hiding a hangover. The only sign was the slight jitter under his skin from what Jim estimated had to be his fifth cup of coffee. He'd been sipping and refilling all morning.

"So..." Sulu searched for a way to distract Jim. "You didn't come back to the bar last night. Gary was worried."

Kirk knew where this was going. He nodded to Sulu to follow him and escaped to the small enclave where the tiny storage lockers were. "Let me guess, he was worried that in my state, I'd do something horribly perverted to Spock and get myself fired?"

"You catch on well for someone who looks more out of it than me," Sulu confessed. "Admit it, you're affectionate as shit when you're drunk. Like horn-dog drunk. Spock could have taken it the wrong way."

He would have. Spock should have. But he didn't. That didn't stop Jim from feeling the need to beat the shit out of Scotty for using him as a bartering tool. Uhura probably connived him into it knowing the guy had the hots for her. This was why Kirk never took part in office romances. They had the potential to mess with politics. He knew how Game of Thrones ended.

"You don't have to worry about that." Jim said instead of explaining everything, leading Sulu back to what had been James Kirk's desk just one day ago. He scraped the last of his crap into a box and grabbed his meager belongings, not protesting when Sulu followed him to his new office.

There was a post-it note on his door from Spock, urging him to contact Calhoun.

"Love note from Grayson already?" Sulu teased, noting Kirk's frown. "You sure work fast."

Unable to resist, Kirk tore the note from the door and began to 'read' it in a melodramatically bad Russian accent. _"Jim, las' nigh' vas vonderful, but please pull out next time. I don't want to get pregnant. Sincerely, Your Russian Minx. PS. Me lowve you long time."_

Sulu glanced at him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, but Kirk had already crumpled the note and stuck it in a pocket. "Very funny," he said dryly and leaned against the door, watching Kirk rifle around his box for his sidearm just in case he forgot it.

"I try." He found his sidearm trapped underneath his magic 8-ball and sighed with relief. Like he needed to double back and be reminded that he was no longer a single agent anymore, but a glorified office worker.

"If it makes you feel any better, Gary's left Scotty's ass alone just for you," Sulu said as he took another sip of his coffee. "Poor guy thinks it's his fault for introducing you guys, so he's gone off to sulk."

Kirk snorted and opened the door to his new office. The space was about the same, but instead of places to plug in laptops, there were forbidding-looking desktops and extra monitors taking up half the desks. A pencil-pusher space. Wonderful. "He barricaded himself on the docks? Good, it'll be easy to find him."

Sulu turned to head to his office, but remembered something and caught the door with his free hand. "Oh, just a head's up. I heard Pike's visiting your new office later. Probably got something to do with, I dunno, the prime evidence for _Operation Gemini_ in the hands of local police. They still won't give it back, you know."

"I'm aware," Kirk slammed his box of possessions onto his new desk, the empty one. "You want me to grab a bike and pedal my ass all the way to Springfield? Half the department's already on my ass about it and it's not even nine!"

Sulu sensed that now was a good time to retreat and left Kirk to snarl at his paperweights.

* * *

He had a mandatory disciplinary course in protocol and etiquette that came with the demotion. Kirk didn't even get to see Spock until later when he returned to the shared office.

Opening the door, he found Spock and Chekov bent over a screen, intensely debating something in quiet voices over the complicated scripts and video feeds. Whatever it was had to be engrossing because neither of them noticed him enter. Chekov seemed entirely too pleased with himself this morning. Even more so than usual.

"Okay, I gotta know," That caused both computer nerds to break away from the screen and blink up at him. "Did everyone get some last night except for me?"

"You're dismissed, Chekov," Spock said, sparing the young technician. Chekov appreciated it greatly if his heavy blushing and mumbled apology were any indication. Poor thing nearly sprinted away.

Spock diverted his gaze back to Kirk, his tone flat and unamused. "I see that your etiquette course has done much to develop your sense for appropriate office topics."

"Funny." Kirk followed Chekov's exit suspiciously and then glowered at Spock. "It's true then, isn't it? I got sacrificed so everyone else could hook up."

"Define the phrase 'hook up,'" Spock replied with a curiousness Kirk did not expect. "I am unfamiliar with this colloquialism."

Whether Spock was trying to do it or not, he distracted him. Kirk explained as professionally as he could and then ended up forgetting the original point all together. "Uh... well, 'hook up' is used to describe a situation where two people (or sometimes more) go home together to... well, have sex, usually, or make out... sometimes people use it for dates but usually sex is the main activity."

"Then I can assure you once more," Spock cut through his rambling, "you did not engage in sexual congress with anyone last night." He tilted his head when Kirk sighed. "You are disappointed?"

"Well… okay maybe not," he decided and took Chekov's seat. "It's not like I would have remembered it anyways. And I bet they wouldn't have dry-cleaned my suit the next day. That was nice."

Spock almost shyly ducked away to return to his work, the move making Kirk raise his eyebrows. "I have heard that you are still unsuccessful in your retrieval of Arman Faziz's hard drive."

"Word spreads, doesn't it?" Kirk let the change of subject go and picked up one of the hard drives on Spock's desk, turning it over in his hands. "They even sic'd Sulu on me. I tried talking to her on the phone, but nothing. Calhoun refuses to mail it and wants me to come pick it up personally. She says she won't let anyone else take it, court order or no."

"Her actions are unprofessional. To withhold evidence, especially when it is the director that requested it, is illogical." How did Spock do that, make_ 'illogical'_ sound like_ 'fucking annoying'_? Kirk grinned despite himself.

"Miffed about that are you? Or are you just reflecting Komack's frustration? She probably just felt bad because I got injured in her jurisdiction. I think she_ likes_ me." He placed the hard drive back on Spock's desk and moved to his own, lounging back in his chair.

Spock continued typing away, but Kirk could hear the tightness in his words. "It is illogical to be emotionally compromised in this line of work."

Kirk somewhat agreed, but shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Sometimes it's unavoidable though." He sat back in his chair, feeling nostalgic. "Pike once knew this guy. Real badass. You could toss a spear at his head and he wouldn't even flinch. Completely stony, like a damn statue. Then 9/11 happened. His wife worked halfway up the Second Tower and his kids were in a daycare there. Lost all of them that day. Pike found him sitting in the corner of a bathroom stall just sobbing. Sobbing and trying to call his wife. Never saw the man like that ever. Not even when he was in Desert Storm."

"What reaction would you have expected?" Spock inquired, his attention now completely off the computer.

"Well... I don't know," Kirk said thoughtfully and thumbed at one of the circuits on the motherboard. "I've never had it happen. Don't have a wife or kids. I guess if anything happened to one of the guys... I think I'd be pissed off more. I'd want revenge."

Spock slid his gaze back to the screen. "An honest answer."

"I'm just saying, it's different for everybody. But all humans need to be angry sometimes. Even snarky half-Kurds."

"Snarky is not a word I would use to describe Kurdish dispositions."

"Are you sure, Analyst Grayson?" Kirk said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. "You sure seem to be from where I'm standing. How do you even define snarkiness? To me, it's a mastery over tonality and phraseology. You may very well be a king in your own right; a king of the colloquial. King Spock has a nice ring to it, actually."

He was sure Spock was glaring. Those brown eyes had darkened to deep obsidian and bored into Kirk with what could be nothing but anger.

Spock's next words were thick, almost hoarse. He couldn't be that sensitive, right? "I believe I have underestimated you. I will not do so again."

Kirk puzzled over whether that was a compliment or a threat. To be on the safe side, he went with 'threat.' This was Komack's little princess, after all.

Spock looked ready to chuck him into the wastebasket and sit on the lid until Jim asphyxiated. Then, he'd probably straighten his jacket and go right back to work, distraction-free.

Then again, Spock also looked like he wanted to grab Kirk, fling him over the desk, and ravish him until he was senseless. Jim liked to think he wasn't being too optimistic for wishing that to be the case. But he put a leash on his libido and stuck it in a corner, going back to work with a sigh.

Sometimes Kirk would look up from his paperwork to glance at that bow-shaped mouth and wonder what it would be like to suckle it. Kirk was a sucker for lips like that.

Sharing an office was obviously not Spock's idea since he'd made no attempts to initiate communication all morning. He preferred to focus on his work in a distraction-free zone.

Too bad Kirk didn't give a shit about office etiquette, which was part of the reason he had to endure those god-awful lessons for the next few weeks. Not that any amount of 'development' would change James Kirk. He badly wanted to boldly go to town mapping out those exotic features with his mouth. How much of it was from his father's side and how much of it was his mother's? He may have been half-Kurd, but Kirk had found out in the files that Spock's mother had been Canadian.

So that made Spock insufferably polite to boot. _No wonder he'd dry-cleaned Kirk's suit._

Spock looked up from their shared desk, dark brown eyes inquisitive. "Agent Kirk."

Kirk winked at him. "Call me Jim."

Spock ignored that. "Is there something you seek from me, Agent Kirk?"

Actually, Kirk did seek something, but he was pretty sure that related directly to chapter eleven, paragraph four under sexual harassment in the _Code of Conduct Handbook_. Questions spilled from his lips regardless. "Do you ever smile or is that some Kurdish manly pride slash composure thing? What about music, what do you like? Have you ever been to places other than Iraq, or is that classified too?"

Spock seemed to freeze for when Kirk licked his lips, then relaxed. "Agent Kirk, you are more than welcome to peruse the details of my life available in my public file. Most of the answers you seek can be found there."

"But, Spock," Kirk sighed dramatically, "Files can always be... erroneous. Especially in this business. I'd rather hear it from you. The personal touch, you could say." Besides, he'd already been through Spock's public files multiple times with no satisfying results.

Since Kirk had been expecting the cold shoulder, he was surprised to see Spock sit back a bit and consider his words. "Asking if Kurds can smile is ridiculous. We are capable of the same range of emotions as any other group. I assume you are basing this_ 'erroneous'_ conclusion on your experience with my personality. That, too, is a false deduction."

Kirk couldn't help but smile in amusement at that. "What can I say? I'm just a dumb American."

"I have met worse," Spock replied stiffly, which Kirk had to admit was a compliment. "Kurdish music comprises specialized instruments including strings, drums, and long flutes. There are typically epic sonnets and ballads of folklore depending on the region."

"I kinda want to hear some of them," Kirk admitted, rather partial to any genre of music himself. "Maybe I'll pull up YouTube during break or something and check it out. Any specific ones I should hear?"

This time both of Spock's eyebrows climbed and Kirk glimpsed firstly of actual surprise on his face. He offered him a few names, some of which Kirk had to write out with Spock's help. By the time he'd meticulously spelled each name to make sure he got it, Spock looked downright impressed. Kirk wasn't just being nice; he was genuinely interested.

He had thought Spock wouldn't answer his last question, but he did. "As for my traveling, my father is a diplomat. I have visited neighboring countries like Iran and Syria, though only briefly. Political instability is only one of many reasons my father insisted on remaining in the Middle East alone."

The uncharacteristic hesitation of his words made Kirk believe that Spock was used to hostility, especially post-9/11. He wondered if he was being unintentionally insensitive. That was the thing with his mouth, it ran off regularly without consulting with his brain first. Apparently that was an infamous Kirk trait.

"Cool," he said nonchalantly, threatening to break out into a smile. "I smile, of course. It's dazzling, but I'm sure you know that already."

"Subjective," Spock dismissed, but Kirk swore he saw the corner of his lips quirk for a split second before returning to a dispassionate frown.

"And don't get me started on music because I'll talk your ear off. I've traveled almost everywhere except the moon though I kinda wished I had. Other than that, I was raised in Iowa. Shitty farming town, nothing special."

"And yet you are a decorated CIA agent, despite this," Spock surmised carefully, a subtle compliment hidden in his words. Kirk smiled.

Decorated was an overstatement. Kirk had won no notable accolades, probably never would given his track record for disobeying protocol. He got the job done. And gave the people who'd written the protocol migraines.

But Spock already knew that, no doubt had already memorized every pertinent detail of James Kirk's public file. He probably hadn't downloaded Jim's profile picture or looked for sexual conquests under 'areas of expertise' but, hey, a guy had to have some fun.

They shared a curious look before Kirk rummaged through his drawers of useless knickknacks. He couldn't wait to show Spock his drinking bird.

* * *

Lunch hour had come and gone before Director Pike arrived with clipboard in hand. He caught them in a rather peculiar position; Spock was under his desk and Kirk was lounging back in his chair with a lazy grin fixed on his face. What had started as an exercise in persuasion had ended up with quite interesting results.

Kirk had wanted to see if he could get Spock to 'help' him place his firearm in the holster that was installed under the desk. Oh, he hadn't asked or anything. All he'd done was fumble it enough times to make his new partner concerned about a misfire. A little grumbling and cursing at his broken arm, and Spock volunteered. Now, the agent was bent over with his head under the desk and Kirk was definitely thinking thoughts that violated the Code of Conduct.

It didn't help that Pike caught Kirk focusing a bit too intensely on how those slacks really stretched and molded his ass. When Spock finally emerged, hair tousled and breathless with annoyance due to a faulty clasp in the holster, Kirk suddenly found speech a bit difficult.

"Well," Pike began dryly, startling the both of them. "I see you've wasted no time in getting to know each other."

Kirk smiled apologetically at Spock. "He's joking, Spock. And thanks."

"You are welcome," Spock murmured, eyes forward to address Pike. "My apologies for any confusion, Director. I was simply fixing Agent Kirk's holster—"

"Oh, I'm sure you were," Pike raised an eyebrow. "Komack that much of a hard-ass, is he? Well, you'll be glad to hear that I'm an even_ bigger_ one. I just have a sense of humor."

"Amen," Kirk muttered under his breath.

"And I see you're already dazzled by blue eyes over there, since you're catering to his every whim," Pike pointed his clipboard at Kirk but kept his eyes on Spock. "I suggest not underestimating how he works. He acts like an idiot, but that only makes him more dangerous."

Spock blinked. "Another joke, Director?"

"Not this time."

"Hey!" Kirk exclaimed, then balked when Spock took Pike's words seriously and nodded. "Oh come on, Spock. I really _did_ need help with my holster."

His plea went unanswered. Pike was already getting down to business. "So on the plate today. Calhoun won't budge on the confiscated computer. Which means you'll have to get it in person." Pike glanced up from the file and cocked his head at him. "You look like _shit_."

Kirk frowned, mildly insulted. "I didn't have time to _shave_."

"Good. Don't do it for the next few days," Pike handed him another folder. "While Spock analyzes Faziz's computer, you might as well do some actual work around here during the wait. Araya Karbelnikoff will be returning to DC and I'm sure she's expecting her lover at the studio."

"You've got to be kidding me!" Kirk sighed and tapped the edge of the folder against his hip. "She wasn't supposed to be back for another _three_ months. What am I gonna do about the pieces?" Araya was a demanding, spoiled princess with a compulsion to surround herself with beauty. Patrick Thorpe had promised her a gallery that would take her breath away upon her return. She was supposed to be gone for an entire year, so he'd traded his scheduling with Kelso for their art designer.

Kirk would need to grow Patrick's beard all over again.

"I bumped you to the top of the list, Kirk," Pike said. "She can design three pieces in two days, but that's it."

"I'm gonna need more than three," Kirk whined. "I promised Karbelnikoff an art gallery when she got back."

Spock, curious with the espionage work, piped up. "You are injured. This may serve as a plausible excuse for a limited showing."

"Look at that, you're working as a team already," Pike smiled warmly at Spock. "Actually, that gives me an idea. Since Kelso's out on his honeymoon the next couple of weeks, you're out an analyst for the Karbelnikoff case. Take Spock with you. Let him see how you work."

Kirk traded a look with Spock, who simply raised an eyebrow before returning to his computer. "Wait… you're taking me off desk work?"

"You're still grounded, Kirk," Pike said. "Whatever Komack believes, espionage cases hardly ever end in gunfights. You've been riding the Karbelnikoff family's good graces the longest out of the others. We need to know which clients her dad's picked up overseas in the last few months."

Spock turned in his seat, puzzled. "I had thought Agent Kirk was an SSO according to his dossier?"

"He didn't tell you? Figures," Pike shot a look at Kirk who rolled his eyes. "Kirk was recently _'promoted'_ to Specialized Security Officer. I thought he'd be ready for the position…"

"I am," Kirk shot back.

"Your boss prefers to keep Kirk here as a Targeting Analyst. Despite tensions, and I mean this Kirk, I _do_ agree with Komack's reasoning. You _are_ one of our top agents as a TA."

"That's nice." Kirk snorted and fanned himself with the file. "Please. TA is nothing, but a glorified title for a hired actor. I sit around, bemoaning my existence, and let the girl drape all over me while the techs excavate every one of Daddy's dirty little secrets. That'll be you, by the way."

"It _may_ be me," Spock corrected, "I have my own cases to work on."

Pike tossed a look at Kirk, who just shrugged. "Whatever. It's Spock's prerogative. Any analyst who can work surveillance bugging would do."

"If you say so." There was something in Pike's tone that got Kirk on edge. "I did send an open Counterintelligence Analyst position in the central hub. Analyst Moreau answered first. Think about it, Grayson."

Oh god. Anyone but Moreau. "Spock, Spock, Spock…" Kirk cooed, sliding behind him and patting the back of Spock's chair. As soon as Pike was out of sight and earshot, he gripped Spock's shoulder. The way Spock stiffened beneath his fingers was strangely invigorating. "You know, I've been thinking about this partnership thing. It'd be logical for us to… stick together, you know? Forge natural synergy and cooperation…"

Spock wasn't fooled. He tilted his head up, exposing his pale throat. Kirk resisted the urge to lick his lips.

"Agent Kirk, you are aware that we are working together for _Operation Gemini_ alone," Spock said. "My work flow for the week—"

"—is already organized according to urgency, length, color, blah blah blah," he gave Spock his best charming smile and leaned forward. "Oh c'mon. I know you haven't manned a van before. It'd be _logical_ to earn experience on the field instead of behind the desk. Watch me in action, Grayson. I'll prove my worth to you."

"As you still possess the badge and sidearm, I have no doubts as to your qualifications." Spock deflated however, just a little, under Kirk's gentle coaxing. "But you are correct. I have not participated in fieldwork since training."

Kirk felt a bite and started to slowly reel Spock in. "And you won't be disappointed! Besides, I can pick up Faziz's computer from Calhoun on the way up. It'll go directly to your lap. No preliminary scans, shipping problems, or any of that bureaucratic bullshit. You can get to work on it with no hassle."

He begged Spock with his eyes, the way he leaned into his personal space. Anyone but _Moreau_. Spock he wouldn't mind. He was offering Spock a position of trust. Who else could an agent on the field depend his life on than the analyst telling him who to shoot, where to run, what to do?

"What do you have against Analyst Moreau?" Spock asked slowly.

Knowing this was going to be brought up, Kirk moved away from Spock and blocked the analyst's view of the monitor. "He knows what he's doing," he answered stiffly and leaned his ass on the desk. "But I don't want him."

"This is a personal issue, then?" Spock leaned back in his seat so regally, it took Kirk's breath away. They both tried to keep their distance, but they were even closer than before. He could practically touch knees with Spock at this angle.

If only they were talking about something more appealing, like how much he liked the way Spock left the top button of his shirt undone. Then he realized that he needed to stop ogling like a damn schoolgirl because thoughts like these just weren't healthy.

It was just so, _so_ hard. And talking about Moreau just made things worse. "Off the record, Spock?" he offered with a hesitant frown.

"I welcome it."

Mitchell's suspicions be damned. Spock just sounded so sincere it was hard to see him as a threat to his career. Or maybe that was the perfect con and Spock was a damn fine actor. He'd be wearing a tin hat right now if Komack was smarter, but that was hardly the case.

Kirk averted his gaze and focused on the wastebasket for a moment before busying himself with the files. "I'm not comfortable around him." Spock was silent, waiting for him to elaborate further. Kirk shrugged at him. "That's all I have to say about that."

"If he has distressed you, you are within your rights to contact Human Resources and file a report."

"Advise me all you want," Kirk dismissed. "You don't go around just contacting HR for every stupid thing. It's just... my problem."

Kirk shouldn't have been surprised by how insightful Spock was proving. "If it was a 'stupid' thing, you wouldn't be so determined to acquire anyone but Moreau."

"Maybe I just want you to come along. Ever thought about that?"

"Yet you did not mind when I refused the first time. When Director Pike mentioned Moreau you changed your tune, I believe the phrase is."

Jim regretted opening his mouth in the first place. "I think we should drop this. I don't want to work with him. End of story."

"You wished to speak off the record," Spock reminded him, his gaze indecipherable. "Now you want to rescind the offer."

It dawned on Kirk, leaving him breathless again. "Are you irritated that I brushed you off the first time?"

"I was not..."

"You were!" He leaned forward, meeting eye level with Spock. "C'mon Spock, we're partners. You don't need to hide anything from me."

"We have a temporary alliance," Spock said shortly. "We need not engage in social conduct when it does not affect the mission."

Kirk smiled slowly. "Now who's trying to rescind from speaking candidly? We live dangerous lives, trading dangerous secrets. You and I both know that a profitable collaboration is equivalent exchange."

"My life in return for yours," Spock said quietly, diverting his dark eyes from Kirk's. "That is rather intimate, Agent Kirk."

Kirk suppressed the urge to lean forward, bump foreheads with Spock, and bask in this... whatever this was. Like they were on the same wavelength finally. Spock made him giddy as shit. That excited him... and _frightened_ him.

"Think we could be friends?" Kirk asked and, strangely enough, Spock was as still as water. "Because that's what friends do. They share information with each other."

Friends survived longer on the field. It had to do with, well, not wanting a friend to die compared to a coworker. It would be nice if Spock liked him well enough not to risk his ass on a technicality. It might even save his job.

Spock's mouth opened, then closed. **Error: 404**. Sheepish, Kirk patted Spock's hand in pity once and then, almost curious from the déjà vu, he kept it there for a beat longer than necessary before pulling away.

"Think about it, Spock," Kirk flashed a grin his way. "Don't spend the rest of your life hiding behind the computer. What if you miss out on something worthwhile?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."

* * *

"What's up, motherfucker?" Kirk said loudly and heard Scotty's skull thunk against the underside of his van. "You almost got me fired last night trying to get some from Uhura!"

Kirk had snuck up on Scotty while he'd been tinkering along happily. Now, he yanked himself out from the undercarriage and slammed his toe on a toolbox trying to get away, but Kirk was no longer hindered by drinks or painkillers. He picked up a muffler with his uninjured arm and tossed it like a bowling ball. With a yelp and a curse, Scotty tripped on the muffler while he hopped around in pain and went face first into the side of the van, easily trapped once Kirk swooped down on him.

"What… hav' yeh gone and lost yer marbles, Kirk?" Scotty's eyes were darting in every direction.

"When you're guilty, you hide down here and tinker with the van," Jim grinned viciously and gestured to the splayed out tools with his shoe. "Tell me, was plowing Uhura worth risking my job, jackass?"

"Ah, ah! Watch th' hair!" Scotty had chuckled nervously then flinched from Kirk's fist. "Okay, I had ter pull out Nyota somehow! Grayson was attached ter her like a babe ter a teet!"

Kirk lowered his fist in an act of mercy. "Ever thought that maybe, I dunno, Spock might have the hots for her?" Because it sounded exactly like that and he saw the picture of her on Spock's fireplace that morning. The way they stood together in the photo looked like they should shack up and have a million intelligent babies to take over the planet right about now.

Well, maybe. Uhura seemed pleasant in the photo, her smile bright and blinding for the camera, but Spock looked like he was just caught in another boring day at work. Did he _ever_ smile?

Scotty snorted. "Don'chu think they would've shacked up by now? Besides, between you an' me, Nyota prefers a gentleman with a sense of humor."

"Then why did she leave with you last night?" Kirk teased, then laughed when Scotty sputtered indignantly.

"Very funny!"

"I am? Does that mean I got a chance with…" he trailed off. "Wait? Her first name's _Nyota_?"

"No comment! And yeh damn well better keep that pretty trap shut!" Scotty had said before ducking sideways under Kirk's arm and frolicking off because he definitely got laid last night and it just wasn't fair.

"Yeah well, I hope you had fun because I'm assigning you again to the Karbelnikoff target. You won't be able to see Nyota for the next three weeks!" Kirk sing-songed at his back.

Scotty swore loudly.

* * *

Kirk had to suppress the rumble of pleasure in his chest when he found Spock waiting for him with the rest of his crew. The ride to DC, and the detour to Springfield, was long as usual, but he didn't mind this time.

Well, _half_-mind. Pike must have thought it'd be funny to bring Moreau along with them. Spock seemed to have gotten the hint the last time they talked. He made sure he was between Kirk and Moreau the whole time.

It was... nice. He hoped the unnecessary smiles he shot Spock's way whenever he addressed him expressed his gratitude.

Moreau, even more thankfully, didn't seem to be in a bitchy mood as usual. He was always dressed to the nines in the latest business fashion and trying too hard to be the sexiest man in the room. Moreau was young, barely in his twenties, and one of the new brilliant technical recruits of the CIA. Basically, he was a spy-movie producing Hollywood executive's wet dream.

He plugged away at the van's computer system with updates and Kirk prayed that maturity had finally kicked the boy right in the ass. What happened in the past should just remain there — just one embarrassing memory left well enough alone.

The tension almost eased away once they passed the Springfield line. Kirk braced for impact the moment Spock's eyes narrowed in question during his perusal of Kirk's cover file.

"Are you sure this is an appropriate state ID for Agent Kirk's alias?" Spock raised the card for Moreau's viewing. Kirk finished loading his firearm with an audible click against his knee and then squinted his eyes at the ID in Spock's hand.

Moreau didn't even bother to look. "It's from Agent Kelso's files. Why the hell are you questioning something I've been doing the past two years? I know how this works."

"I can never understand why Americans must need to be so defensive when they are in error," Spock said curtly.

That got Moreau to turn in his seat and toss his headphones against the keyboard. "I'm not in error. You're the one who's nitpicking!"

"Dunnae make me turn this van around!" Scotty piped cheerfully from the driver's seat and shared a look with Mitchell, who shook his head and cranked up the music.

"Let me see that, Grayson," Kirk ordered. The last thing they need right now is a bitch fit between two analysts. He didn't want to end up dead during a mission because they had an argument over something stupid.

Spock handed over the ID before sending a dismissive look at Moreau. So much for a neutral buffer.

"It looks like Patrick Thorpe's usual ID," Kirk concluded and checked both sides. "I know he lives in DC, but his last residence was in New York. He's just too lazy to get a Pennsylvania license. Though, wait a minute…" He raised an eyebrow at Moreau when he shot a smug look at Spock. "This ID's past its expiration date, Moreau. You didn't get a new one?"

Moreau paled and took back the ID to see for himself. "I… _fuck_."

Well, this was going to be a swell experience. He'd raise both hands up in surrender except for the fact that Bones refused to let him out of the sling. "Fine. Whatever. It's not important. Just chill."

"The reason I agreed to join you on this mission was to experience first-hand what an on-field analyst is capable of," Spock interjected. "However, Analyst Moreau's lack of attention to detail could spell disaster to the assignment. It would not be productive to learn from him."

"I'm right here, you impersonal asshole," Moreau said acidly. "God, I can't believe Jim has to put up with you for the next few weeks—"

"That's enough, Moreau," Kirk replied, raising his voice enough to get both of their attentions. "Just get this shit sorted out before I get dropped off. And Spock…" he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're mostly here for Faziz's computer anyways. Just keep out of each other's hair for the sake of my goddamn sanity."

Jesus Christ. This was going to be a nightmare.

* * *

At least Calhoun seemed a tad apologetic. Kirk walked with her down the entryway of the Springfield PD department and laid on as much charm as possible to get her cooperative. Her annoyance with him had dissipated the moment he visited her office with the sling around his arm and the bruises and cuts along his jaw.

"You know, you weren't the only ones gunning for the computer," she said with folded arms. "I've had the FBI _and_ Homeland Security busting my ass for a crack at it. I told them the same thing I'm telling you. It's _yours_, Kirk. I don't appreciate people butting in on someone else's case."

That explained why she'd been so damn stubborn. Kirk kind of admired that. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said gruffly and averted her eyes from his best smile. It reminded her of her similarly aged son, no doubt. Kirk had looked into her personal files beforehand. "And I'll have you know we didn't touch it. We don't have the proper techs to go through it even if we wanted to. Place this small, we don't need an ace team of computer crackers. You're free to take it off our hands. In fact, I'll give it to you on a silver platter if you promise to get your nose out of our business."

"But that's my _job_," he winked and, like Pike, Calhoun was still immune to it. She just raised an eyebrow and nodded to him like she was saying_ 'now get out.'_ He grinned despite himself.

Before Kirk could finish saying goodbye to Calhoun, Mitchell grabbed his arm and leaned in close to speak to his ear. "Spock's talking to one of the cops."

"So?"

"He's doing it in _Arabic_," Moreau muttered from behind.

Kirk stilled before he could stop himself and immediately shook his head. There was no way in hell he was going to go that route. "So what? He's in trouble for speaking_ 'le tongue of ze terrorist'_? He's Kurdish. How about a little maturity here?"

"Think with your head instead of your dick this time, Kirk," Mitchell said and pulled him over to the corner. Kirk shoved him off and peeked around it with a sigh.

Spock was conversing in quiet Arabic with a full uniformed officer whose hat obscured his eyes, his arms full of the computer tower. Kirk only had taken a few beginner's courses in the language, but it wasn't enough to carry the conversation.

He could practically hear Winona warning him in his head about how sneaky and untrustworthy Middle Eastern people were, and he squelched it down. His own family might be prejudiced and shit, but Jim Kirk was nothing like that.

Still… "I'll keep an eye on him," Kirk relented, his lips in a thin line. Personal feelings had nothing to do with national security. He had to remember that.

But if he doubted his partner just because he was speaking in his native tongue…

Moreau seemed pleased by his statement, which just pissed Kirk off. "He's still a fellow agent," Kirk snapped at them. "I suggest you treat him like one until you get real evidence. Otherwise I want you booted off my team. You or even _you_…" he shot a glare at Mitchell.

Mitchell raised his hands in defeat. "Alright, alright. He's your little eye-candy, don't worry. Just warning you not to get honeydicked."

"Oh shut up," Kirk snorted and retreated from the corner towards Spock, who ended the conversation with the officer and blinked at him.

"Is there something wrong, Agent Kirk?"

"Maybe," he glanced at the cop who shrugged and walked the opposite way. "You know the guy?"

Spock shook his head. "He hails from one of the villages my father represents. He was on the SWAT team when you apprehended Faziz. I asked him if there were any details about the case that had not yet been entered into the record."

He had no idea how relieved Kirk felt at that moment. "I suppose since you both share a similar heritage, he'd be more inclined to talk to you."

"Indeed." There was something in Spock's eyes that suggested suspicion. "I assure you and the other agents hiding behind the wall that if I were to engage in terrorist activities, I would have done so in a far more intelligent fashion." His words positively dripped in sarcasm, but guilt instantly flooded Kirk's system.

Kirk averted his eyes. "Spock, that's not…"

"You requested open communication between us." Kirk nodded at Spock's words. "You may air your grievances with me." He subtly gestured towards Mitchell and Moreau. "In private."

He was stupid—completely stupid, and he blamed Mitchell and Moreau for it. He actively ignored them throughout the ride and kept close to Spock, who didn't speak to him.

* * *

DC was just miles away, but the Operator in charge of setting up sting cameras, and ordered them off the capital's soil until they finished compiling the appropriate listening equipment in Patrick Thorpe's studio again. As the mastermind of CIA mission specs, the proverbial _eye in the sky_, they've long since learned to follow the Operator's instructions without question.

So they checked into the hotel on the outskirts and Kirk made especially sure he was sharing his room with Spock. Mitchell had stayed behind in Springfield to scout Faziz's family and friends in the area, so Scotty reluctantly agreed to share his room with Moreau. He _owed_ Jim.

They weren't staying at the _Ritz-Carlton_, but the place wasn't serial-killer worthy either. Any hotel was okay with him so long as it was clean. He just wouldn't take a black light to those duvet tops anytime soon.

Spock was already seated at the desk with his laptop plugged in. He hadn't said a word so far, and Jim was fairly certain he was still pissed off.

So he flopped down on one of the two beds, staring at nothing in particular but the back of Spock's black laptop. Looked like a homebrew job. A very expensive and professional one, but still.

He wondered if Spock had to deal with suspicion from his colleagues all the time. Kirk couldn't even imagine that and felt even more guilty. What if he thought Kirk was a racist like his mother or his grandfather?

Kirk's family was infamous for their presence in the Middle East. Spock had to have known this. Desert Storm and now 9/11 may have been the act of terrorists, but to the average person, any Muslim was suspect and that was definitely at least partly Kirk's family's fault. Hell, one of his _cousins_ had been one of the largest mouthpieces on the Senate floor for the _Patriot Act_, and look what happened there.

But James Kirk wasn't like them. He liked to believe that Pike saved him from it; the man had practically raised him. Hell, what if Spock's cold neutrality was just a careful mask to avoid offending anyone? He had to walk on eggshells here. Home of the free, land of the brave, and yet there were people here that would all too gladly kick out everyone like Spock, regardless of character.

It pissed him off. Maybe that's why Kirk was trying so damn hard to prove that he wasn't like his family. Even if his father had died in the same country Spock was from, he could work with a Middle Eastern partner, even trust him with his _life_.

Couldn't he?

"I'm sorry," he said after a long moment. "I didn't mean to seem suspicious, Spock."

The typing slowly stopped. Spock finally looked at him for the first time since Springfield.

He didn't… he didn't seem offended. At all. In fact, he seemed_ indifferent_, like it was commonplace for people to question him. Kirk wasn't really sure if that made him feel better or worse.

"While racial profiling is hardly ethical, the government has a valid reason for employing it. You and the others cannot be faulted for using your training to identify possible terrorists like myself," Spock said clinically. He folded his hands over the keyboard. "Therefore, I am well equipped to handle any such prejudices you wish to address to 'clear the air' and avoid any miscommunication that might be offensive."

"Don't say that," Kirk warned. "It's wrong and we both know it. I just want you to know that I'm not talking to you because I'm worried you'll bomb the compound or something. I'm not even trying to be friendly for the sake of being PC. I'm just a naturally nosy motherfucker. I want to get to know my partner even if it's temporary."

Spock inclined his head in agreement, but Kirk found it wasn't enough. "I told the guys I didn't want them to act like assholes until they had a valid reason to be suspicious."

"That is logical," Spock agreed with a rare nod of approval. It made Kirk's insides fuzzy as shit. "I thank you for following protocol."

"For once?" Kirk winked and, just like that, the energy between them shifted for the better. The hotel room itself felt a few degrees warmer. "Might not be a good decision on my end. You do kind of distract me."

That eyebrow quirked up again. "In what way?"

"Yeah, I dunno if it's appropriate given… you know, but you're kinda hot," he said, unable to stop his mouth. "That is…I mean that in a professional, scientific kind of way. Err… did I say_ hot_? Good-looking? Handsome? Actually, if you don't forward this conversation to HR, I won't say another word."

Spock blinked at him, opened his mouth, then closed it like he could not process the words. Kirk didn't blame him. His culture wasn't exactly friendly towards same-sex canoodling. What kind of response had he expected?

He knew how _he'd_ respond. But Spock?** Error: 404.** _Again._

He expected Spock to say nothing, or tell him that flirting with him was rude and uncalled for because he was straight and he was in an arranged marriage or something.

So when Spock averted his gaze, Kirk was surprised to find his answer soft and, hell, almost flattered. "Thank you." And was that red on his cheeks? No way.

Kirk tried to smile for the sake of it. "You're welcome."

"If this is another attempt to dissuade me from believing you prejudiced, you do not have to—"

"I'm serious," Kirk interrupted, rolling on the high of Spock's blushing. "I kind of dig that desert dweller flavor if you know what I mean. Probably why Mitchell's so bitchy about it. He said you're honeydicking me."

Spock blinked in confusion. "Honey… dicking?"

Kirk chuckled and leaned forward in his seat, ready to explain, animated hands and all. "It's from a new movie that came out. North Korea got their panties in a twist all about it. Has the CIA in it, you know. Not well-portrayed, but I thought it was funny."

"Fascinating."

"Yeah. Anyway, the main characters catch on to the CIA's tactics. You know, you bring in a hot agent to get your targets under the collar and they end up doing things for you?" Kirk elaborated. "The main character called it _honeydicking_. It gets mentioned throughout the movie."

Spock tilted his head, expression unsure as he folded his arms. "I had thought that particular CIA move would be referred to as a 'honeypot'."

"If she's a chick that seduces you, yeah," Kirk agreed. "But if it's a dude doing it, he's a honeydick." Spock just stared at him before turning back to his computer, apparently done with the conversation.

Kirk laid back on his bed and began counting the cracks in the ceiling. He didn't think the CIA would honeydick him. But if they were, they were doing a damn good job of it. He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything else.

Or maybe he'd just think of Spock with nothing but that stupid tie on. He let out a frustrated sigh that thankfully Spock didn't seem to notice.

It's gonna be a long fucking night.


End file.
